The Colder the Whiskey, The Wetter the Ice.

If you're trying to give me something, don't.

I have everything.

If you try and know me, you probably already do.

Don't leave it to me to measure your worth.

I'll let you be worthless.

But ask me to be kind, and I'll never say no.

Expecting, Getting, and Forgetting

When a night begins, I'll sit around Expecting it.

What it will be.

We leave, we arrive.

And everythings changed A hundred times on the way.

Half the time its a blast.

Half the time my body makes it in the door but I never did.

Whatever times left, Nobody makes it in the door - me and a close drunk squeak alone 

We always get it.

We left to get it.

I never remember it but thats what cheap poems are for.

A poem for Jeanie

By B.T Masters

Swing you, and away. Always.

Fly you and always so high I cannot see.

Is it distant love I've adopted.

Or is the illusion whats come too close to my heart.

To ask "Are you mine" 

Dumb speech.

To wonder if it's only me.

A dumb life.

Then there's nothing left than to be dumb for you.

Part 2-"Rhythm is our business" Said Lunceford to Smith

...Two weeks earlier this same beach was smiles, songs; nurses in next to nothing. Beer thanks to the Colonel. Paradise on the border of a war. Every friday we would shrug our duties for the whole day and set up at the beach. Three months on the island and our system was flawless.

 9 Am- the Cooks and the Mechanics (who all happened to be decent and passionate chefs in their own ways .) Set up the giant trough grill, and began cooking. Everyone would make their way to the large courtyard a the the fore of the base. Standing in the courtyard looking out at the beach, the radio tower would be directly behind, The Nurses station to the right, and the living quarters to the left.

It didn't take long to wire our record player to the base speakers (which I had installed myself) and have the sound of Bunny Berigan's "Trees" in our ears as we poured our coffee. We had the best coffee. If I wasn't so caught up in the little world we'd created I might feel bad about spending the government's war bucks on Premium roast and Blatz but what the fuck, I was just following orders anyhow. 

Usually on fridays my job was surf lessons. I had come up with this job on my own, and while it seemed a helpful gesture  to the cause of those who had no clue how to ride a wave, It was for me. I had figured that all the fellas on this island either knew how to surf just fine, or didn't know cause they didn't care. This left only the Female nursing staff wondering what this sport had to offer. Paradise. Every friday.

"Alright girls, now hop up on your knees!" I shout to the row of nurses all lying on their boards. Jesus H. Christ.

"Having fun playing with your dolls then?" A shout comes from behind. I Don't need to turn to know who it is. Her deliberate tongue, Joy. She mouthed off more than any woman I had ever met, but she was good looking enough to get away with it. Smart too.

"I am infact!" I still hadn't turned. I walked over and adjusted the closest girls posture with a gentle tap on the lower back. She straightened out. I turned. "Care to join us?" I asked to Joy.

"ha!" she throws her head back, messing her dark red hair, stopping just where her shoulders end. Untied." No I was just coming over to say I appreciate the flowers, Your an ass but Ill miss you when I leave." She was still in her uniform. Most of us were in some form of bathing suit or another, but she knew the power that pencil skirt had. 

"Ah you won't miss me." I replied, walking a little closer. The nurses kept practicing hopping up on their knees. They had started gathering a crowd, but I had become uninterested."You got yer New York newspaper world to keep you busy. All those real bright writers with ten assistants to carry around their seven pocketbooks, and 15 guys to keep track of those ten guys" I started smacking my fingers as if to count " Oh and that loft with the view!" I fell back into the sand with my hand on my head as if to faint. 

"Oh come off it." She laughed "I have a bit more to write then you and I will have a drink?" she started turning away but kept her eyes fixed on mine, as I lay on the sand.

"Yeah, Ill be around" I said back. She walked off and I put my hand over my eyes to block the sun. I pictured her naked.

Next on the schedule we had fallen into, after everyone ate, was a toast lead by Colonel Brighton. "As I raise the first glass of the day, as I hope to one day raise the flag over Tokyo-" Everyone cheers " ah ah ah not yet! As I raise the first glass of the day, as I hope to one day raise the flag over Tokyo, I drink to raise the spirits of those who have fallen, and toast to them." Everyone raised their glasses and there was a half second of silence before Brighton shouts "The unlucky bastards!" and downs his entire cup. Cheers- and we begin. 

The air by this time stunk of grilled meat and coal. Beers were being tossed back and forth and everyone was wearing a smile. By now even the true warriors, who craved battle, who wanted Japanese blood, had given up and begun enjoying themselves.  The Colonel and he's entourage stood around the makeshift bar we had put together. The top was covered in assorted bottles. None of it was cheap either. I had to wonder what his personal stock was made up of. They already looked drunk and it was only about Noon.

Charlie Barnet's "The Right Idea" came on the PA and a few of the guys took a few of the girls and swung em around. One of the nurse girls approached me . Jeanie ,blonde, little pony tail, about 19 I'd say. She had her swim suit on still,Red and white stripped, but had thrown one of the mechanics dark blues over her shoulders and tied it up in such a way so she didn't have to button it. She had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. "Whats the idea Bill?" She said bumping up against my side to the music, pushing me a bit.

"Alright alright" I grabbed her waist and led her out toward the boards we'd set on the ground. Not the best dance floor but it did the trick. We started moving.

"That was a good lesson today, I think im about ready to go in the water..." Jeanie said puffing on her cigarette which she had hanging out of her mouth.

I grabbed it from her with my left hand and kept here in rhythm with my right, on her back.I took a drag and put it back into her mouth. "Wanna give it a shot?" I pushed her out with a spin and pulled her back quick and a little closer than before.

"How about t'nite? it'll still be warm im sure of it" She said more quietly. Just as I began to smile I looked over across the courtyard to see Brennan Masters, and for all intensive purposes, this was his girl I was dancing with. She was wearing his shirt at least. I Averted my eyes. He was a quiet fellow. Always reading. He'd gone and grown a beard, the mechanics generally did.

"What'd Master think of that?" I said. She pulled away and looked me in the face. We weren't moving anymore.

"No ones nobodys!" She said loud. Then she came in close again with her hands crawling up my back  and said half as softly "What old Brenny Boy don't know won't hurt him."

"Fuckin A" I pecked her on the cheek and lifted her off. "Be good Jeanie!" and I started away. I had to find Joy.

I pushed around the groups of people chatting and drinking. Some of the Fighting men were horsing around playing war. They were here to guard the tower against attacks we never thought would come, all they could do was play war. My focused shot passed them, through their battle of laughter and sand throwing, to Joy sitting alone on a small grassy hill on the edge of the sand. She had a glass of something that looked full so I didn't feel I had to bring her anything. Plus, I had a beer in my hand, freshly opened, and one in my shirt pocket. It didn't fit well but it worked. I jogged over and through the firing line . "Friendly fire!" I shouted as I was hit with a Chunk of torn up grass.

"Don't tell me your playing war too" Joy said turning her head toward me as I emerged from the fray.

"Not my thing." I replied and sat down.

Smoke means People.

...The five of us were making better time than we expected. About 3 miles south the plant life started to ease up. Another couple and there was almost none left. Just wide open fields, all flooded about 2 feet deep. marshland. at least a mile across. We couldn't tell how far along the horizontals it went. Farther than we could see. We were a people who knew very little about our own countries terrain. 

Growing up, we were aloud to leave the Protectorate only with  purchased "Vacationeer" passes. Everything they supplied us with was patronizing and cold. It came from the top. The passes were given out in a lottery , but could also be purchased for a price higher than any Harrison Pharm. employee could ever afford. At least they gave us he illusion of liberty. Once you had one of these passes, you were assigned an "Adventure Post" . That was a protected group of campsites about a mile outside of the Protectorate. Now as a kid, this drive through the jungle which took no time at all, still seemed to land us in a completely foreign world. At least they created the illusion of adventure. No one who grew up in Harrison Pharm. knew shit about Cambodia. That was no accident.

We all stood there and took it in for a second. I had never seen anything like this in my life, and it had been a three day walk from where I was born. Artcher too had been inside the protectorate his whole life. Anna had taken part in rescuing "Lost Citizens". (really this was capturing escaped citizens trying to get out of the country without the two tons of paperwork it would normally require. Not to mention 80% of submissions were denied.) They performed operations outside the protectorate often, and she had a decent lay of the land. Just from maps which she was never allowed take home. Dyrell had no idea where he was. He was the first to un -freeze and start wading across the mire. We joined in.

Part 1-a Sunset to the Sun and Suds, Island 28

This was one way to spend the fuckin' war. I carried a surfboard more often than a gun and we were the go to spot for the fuck-ups of the pacific. We manned a forward radio outpost not big enough for an airstrip , and with a coast so rocky the only stretch of actual beach was about the length of a football feild. Not many boats came in. Not much anything came or went out. Not much of anything happened, as far as the war was concerned. 

We would get our occasional Casualty import. A few shot up navy guys show up to lay around and get better. We had  a small nursing station filled  with the Army's best looking girl soldiers. If I were on a carrier or a gunboat out in the fight, and I heard about Island 28, I'd go right ahead and shoot my toe off, just in hopes I'd land on this island. Not everyone was so content with the distance between our island and the fight, but they made due in fighting each other. I swear America's best post war boxers, surfers, and drunks came right off Island 28.

I'd been one of the first to set foot on the island with the corps. of engineers, to build the radio tower and the lodging for the crew that would eventually man it. We also, as I had mentioned, built a small field hospital. 15 beds. Enough to get us the extra funding we "Needed". I would later find that the Colonel  and commanding officer stationed on our island, Col. Brighton , had intended to spend the money on booze for himself and the rest of us. He got his leg torn off on the deck of a gunboat 3 days before  the Bullshit at Pearl Harbor, the beginning of the war he was born to fight. He was heartbroken and became quite an eccentric drunk. Luckily his position was more that of a Mayor than a military leader. He had swung some kind of deal that allowed him command in a region that was still considered disputed but not of any tactical advantage. Our forces had pushed on and built more powerful towers , there were plenty. We could have cut transmission 6 months ago and no one would be the wiser. My theory is that our tower made all the other frequencies a little less snowy. A luxury frequency. Whatever.

I remember the day our party began wind down. Things were changing. 

It was about 9 AM when I rolled out of my bunk onto the floor. Some guys were up, some were face first in their pillows. My boss being one of them.  Sgt. Hadley. He was less of a warrior and more of a foreman. He, myself, and 13 other men built everything on the island and now spent our time on "Up-keep". There was almost no up-keep. The occasional paint job. Downed transmitter. Someone put their fist through a window after a fight by the tower. Not a very demanding position. 

I decided I'd go over to the tower to make sure everything was running fine. Most everyone had been drinking the night before, shooting targets, and birds. I had decided to stay in and re-read the letters I had gotten from the girl I had back in Los Angeles.It wasn't serious and she was the kinda girl who would fuck your friends, but hell the letters were nice. Fell asleep early so I wasn't dead to the world like the rest of the crew. I didn't make it passed the Alarm-Horn before it sounded. In fact- it was directly over my head as I exited the door and nearly blew my ears useless. "What the fuck!" I shouted, along with half the hung-up soldier drunks still inside the barracks. 

Looking up I could see our little stretch of beach was littered with the small transport boats they used to bring the wounded a-shore.  There were people jumping out. Then stretchers.

"Come on lets give em a hand!" Jerry,one of the mechanics, grunted as he passed me on the way down to the shore. He was a decent guy. Had no desire to be on this island. He was older, about 55, and had grandchildren at home. We headed down together, jogging. "excitement! woo!" Jerry joked. Not yet knowing the severity of the situation.

The conversation buzzing down by the boats, from what I could tell, was about a boat that had been shot to shit by a couple Jap planes. Dive bombed and gunned to hell. The worst news for us is that it wasn't all that far from here. The wounds were fresh. Usually we got high ranking types, half healed and getting ready to head out again. Most of these bastards looked like leftovers. I spotted A navy medic without a stretcher partner. He waved and I ran over to grab the other side of the sticks. 

"Thanks, man this guys wrecked." The medic said. The name on his jacket read 'Moss' . The grunt in the stretcher no longer had a jacket, a shirt, or a left leg. "I think he lost his hearing too" Shouted the medic over the commotion on the beach. We made our way as quickly as we could up the beach to where the nursing station lie. There was a fairly dramatic incline near the top of the beach and carrying the stretcher up it was a task. We managed but others were having trouble as-well. There was shouting and fighting over what method should be used to bring the stretchers up the crest of the slope. No time for that. The medic and myself made our way into the Station. The nurses were frantically preparing  their tools and beds. There were four doctors and they all ran up to us and began barking directions. Ours was the first stretcher to have made it into the Station. 

"Set him here at this table" Said one of the doctors. They all looked the same now with their masks on. I had met them all at different points in time on the island but never gotten to know them. They didn't cary on like we did. We set the bloody mess on the table. and backed off. He was swarmed by nurses and doctors. As I saw more of the stretchers pour in, I knew without a doubt the party was winding down.

Remains

...We had shot the French. Except for the...Patriot. The real Frenchman. He was still standing there with his gunning hand in the air and the other one shaking uselessly at his side. He wasn't one of them. He never seemed to be and now it was tested.

"hey where the hell is Dyrell?" Artcher let out, lowering his rifle. We had both forgotten about Dyrell completely when we heard Anna make a noise. "Pick that up, don't be and idiot and we wont shoot you." He said to the Patriot. The boy knelt and grabbed the gun and holstered it. "Take it out, and if someone fucks with us shoot them" Artcher insisted. The boy fumbled to take out the gun, he was nervous and thankful.

We all charged out of the trees and could see immediately what we had pondered. Dyrell and Anna were marching our way with rifles in hand. "who the fuck got shot!?" Anna shouted now jogging at us. She and Dyrell realized the answer as they got closer and saw only the three of us, weapons drawn. "What happened?" Anna asked. She lowered her gun and tilted her head. She was no longer in fight mode.

We explained and took them to the remains. They weren't shocked. Anna told us she had been slapped for disagreeing with Blush then the puke with the mustache pulled a gun- "Bitch walk away" and she did. Everyone stayed awake until the sun came up. Sitting on the porch with our legs hanging off, feeling surprisingly safe. That was alot more action than I had ever seen. I had never shot anyone. Artcher might have. Dyrell, yes. I knew thats what the world was going to be for a while, shooting people. We felt like there was no one left to betray us. Either we had satisfied, temporarily , our paranoia or we had actually saved our asses just in time. It didn't mater which. Especially  now since we had just enough ferry tickets for the lot of us. At first it felt bad thinking so readily about the possessions of the fallen. Then it felt natural. And it was. Man buzzards.

"We ought to sleep, and then pack our things and begin heading south mid day." I suggested. We all agreed and tried to get some rest. None of us got much. The Patriot gave up and took to wandering around looking at the plants on the tree line. He had been inspecting them for days and in-between stints of my dozing I could look out the window and see him foraging. Boyscouts.

Time came to leave and everyone was already awake. We packed our bags, hopped off the porch and never came back to the Compound.

The Army's buyin' my coffee now.

I woke up feeling stupid. Last night on leave and I get too tanked to tell the difference between the girl I came with and the one I left with. Even sober I wasn't sure of which one was worth my time. Or if I was worth either of theirs. 

There were cigarettes in my bed, and a cork. I guess the party didn't stop when we came here. I looked around, maybe still drunk. Wheres the girl? 'Christ,  bet I pissed her off ' I thought. I shook off my sleeping face and scratched my head. So much less complicated when I'm shooting at someone. Soon enough. I had about 3 dollars left and decided even though I wasn't hungry I ought to eat and sober up before It was time to get on a Plane. 

There was a cafe' in the bottom story of the hotel I was staying in. A lot of my gang were here. It was a big hotel and the Army had thankfully snatched it up before those Navy dickheads did. We needed a place to go get drunk and take the townie women before we went and got shot by Jerry. A band had set up in the lobby the night before and everyone was dancing and forgetting. A few service boys, a few locals. They played the songs they all jointly knew over and over but the repetition wasn't a bother. It was good to hear horns.

Now it was morning and as I entered the lobby, my feeling that as a Sgt. I should have put on more than an undershirt and last nights slacks was flaked.  The floor was covered with uniforms, soldiers, women. It was like the field of battle except this time the smell wasn't their blood, but the wine stink on their breath. I had to take this chance to bust their balls. I enjoyed it.

The drums were still set up so I grabbed one of the empty bottles of wine and began smashing it on the biggest cymbal I could see. "Rise and shine you stupid sonsa' bitches! Hitler's on our goddamn  doorstep and he's given it to Lady Liberty like you never seen! On yer feet you drunk shit-bags!" It was like kicking an anthill. The whole ground began moving. The young ones were on their feet and rifling through the endless caps and jackets on the floor for their own. The girls mostly just curled up and plugged their ears. The room got real loud, real quick. I didn't quit beating the cymbal until all my boys were on their feet. "thats the idea fuckers, go get some coffee, its on the President. Germany aint' waitin' for your girlfriends to wake up C'mon get outside!" they all started shuffling out the door. Great kids. Great fighters. They were young enough to not know any better, or anything else. 

One of the girls got up, pissed. She was a real looker with those eyes that are always half shut. Maybe they were sad eyes, maybe inviting, sultry. Right now they were hung-over and angry eyes, angry for me. "Who the hell do you think you are! Im a lady I don't need some asshole with no shirt tellin' me what to do! yellin' at me this early!" She was right in my face. Maybe she was a Sgt. too.

"Im Sgt. Baker, and these are my boyfriends." I replied. Two cups, 3 stogies, one sandwich later we were on a plane. Then it'd be a boat. We weren't going to be hearing any horns for a while.

Basin Street Blues

When we were supposed to be asleep- Saturday morning, They were awake, and with cheap coffee and reefer.

We slept off rich, free hangovers. Too deep to hear their horns.

Their drums.

But I was awake. 

Id lay in my bed pretending to sleep next to my wife, and tap my finger to their illegal beat. On the night stand.

The sun would rise, and years later my wife would tell me.

She was doing the same thing.

Been longer than the Mekong

...Once we heard the little scream, we were on our feet- we hit the tree line as my brain kicked in.

'There's a fucking tiger'- 'There are other starving gun toting survivalists murdering our friends for gear' - 'broken ankle' - ' they-'

"What did they do to you" I interrupted myself as Anna emerged, head down with a hand to her cheek.

"I'll fuckin' kill em , like nothing, where are they -how far" Artcher said starting off into the jungle, opposite the direction in which Anna had come.

"Christ were all going to kill each other." I said. Christ was a slang word. God bless Cambodia.

"Its nothing , its not important do go after them. They're dumping that body in the river. They're just assholes." She said and didn't stop walking toward the compound.She was crying.

"FUCK THAT!" Artcher began pushing his way through the dense jungle. A jungle that hadn't originally been all that intense but was made so by the CoP(Council of Protectorates). It's always been considered an underhanded  move on their part. Planes- Growth hormones- the idea was to make any terrain that wasn't owned by a private protectorate un-inhabitable, as to eradicate the natives and have more land to sell. Land can always be developed. Turns out. In any case, the Jungles had become a very serious place. most of it was so thick you could hardly make it through without a pack , and with one there was no chance of it. There were trails cut and burned by the native populations,  always fighting to keep their land but consistently stifled. Less so now a day with the recent influx of readily available weaponry. Things were a bit more 'even'. 

Business wars, what a cheap reason to kill each other. A deal is made between a corporation and a struggling government- you give us land, we give you the cash. Simple. But no, they get greedy. Nothing new. Another rival Protectorate offers more money for the land to the PM, president , Dictator etc. and a third party is hired to do the dirty work . Make these Protectorates a living hell, we move out, the Corporates go broke, and the land is soon up for sale. The new company moves in and its started all over again. In Cambodia's case, there was no other party given money to come terrorize the Protectorates, the natives were simply handed guns, and told they were free to take back their land. Thanks to their ignorance and fervent hate for the Corporates things seemed to be working out for the ones at the top. Down here everything had gone to shit.

The protectorates had all hired their own Private armies, often comprised of militia-men gun nuts, Grown up boyscouts, and ex-soldiers who needed a dime or missed firing a rifle. We give you the money, you kill the native rebels. Simple. We were caught up in a war between money grubbers and misers, but to survive you either need to be quiet or a soldier, se we found guns. I was beginning to wonder if maybe these french hot-heads were a part of this whole struggle. If so I wondered, do they see us as fighting for or against the natives? We were fighting both sides, mostly just avoiding our demise. We had waited this long, to see if it would blow over quickly, but it had been long enough and the French had ferry tickets. I was also beginning to wonder  if they would share as they had promised. 

Artcher only made it a few feet before the  French arrived  a meter or two away from a trail they had found or cut. It wasn't an obvious rout, it was well chosen. They were quick. "The Burglar it afloat!" Capt. Blush declared waving his pistol with his boys, drinking from a glass flask filled with something half clear half brown. 

"What the fuck did you do to her." Artcher let roar. Loud but not overly pronounced, very direct. They laughed "Tell me you drunk bastards!". It was the middle of the night and the tree cover  was so that moonlight did little. The only light was that of the light in my hand. The French had turned theirs off and Anna's had come and gone. They laughed at him and kept moving.

I shinned the light on that laughing idiot captain of theirs, bursting with rage at their arrogance. " Stop right there you sonofabitch. That woman fed you as you lay in bed and shit yourself. You will apologize or so help me one of the two of us is gonna shoot ya." There was no law. Only judgement.

"Who's to say I don't shoot you first tree dweller." The drunk leader said as he staggered to a stop. They had been drinking through the day, into the night and had just fallen into their beds when break-in happened. I guess they decided to keep it flowing. They were victorious and cocky.

"Yeah what the fuck you gonna do if weve got shooters aswell!" one of his boys declared. He was mousy and had a little yellow mustache. It was weak and didn't suit him. The other boy, the youngest, said nothing, ever. I don't think he spoke much english. I may have heard him speaking French once but  who knows. The mustachioed drew his gun and it took no time for Artcher to misinterpret/act quickly. The boy hit the ground and the last thing I saw as I turned my light away was the boys eye had come out. He was over. Capt. Blush was caught off guard being  A.)that he was Tanked and B.) A shit talker who didn't get called out enough.  It took him just enough time to react. I was able to drop the light and swing my rifle around. Just as his mussel was in my line I tapped the trigger and popped him. Right in the chest. All sorts of liquids were coming out as he ran 3 steps, walked 2, knelt on the 6th, and by the 7thhe was dead in the mud, in the dark.

The youngest boy stood there with his hand in the air, and his pistol at his feet. God bless the french...

Wildlife in Cambodia

...Now he was tied to the chair. The wretch regained his motor function and was no longer safe and feeble.His jaw had loosened up enough to make words now but it was obvious he didn't have full control.

"What made you think you could get away with that bullshit-" Artcher commented, accenting his speech with a slight tap to the wound they had so poorly bandaged. The Wretch squirmed and hissed.

"Theres no where else, you would have done the same, everyones on guard." The Wretch coughed it out. He seemed to get confused or lost in his own sentence. By the end he was already unsure of what he was asked. The French team had come back and were hopping up onto the porch where we stood. 

"You caught him!" The bearded leader smiled. The two younger ones looked on to the tied up Wretch and smiled in unison. " I didn't think Corperates had the legs for such a run!" They all laughed in unison. They gave us shit, we gave them shit. It didn't mean much. 

"Hes talkin' nonsense" I said turning away to grab the bottle off the table. I took a hit. I extended the bottle to their leader. The bearded Blush we had called him behind his back, since had taken to drinking the lighter more feminine wine selection in our cellar. He took the bottle of what was some bitting and nearly black liquid compared to wine and handed it to his boys. "It unsettles the stomach you see" He said and tipped his head in thanks.

Still smiling, he turned his head and simultaneously drew the pistol from his hip and trained it on the Wretch. "He his rabid, like a dog. There are ticks here carrying this. Ive seen it. Happened to many of our group- our old group" He paused and realized something. " He wont tell us anything. Ill shoot him."

"Hey hey We don't have to-" I started in but was interrupted by  tap of Capt. Blush's hammer. The Wretch flew back, propelled by the jet of blood exiting his chest where the bullet entered. He shook twice and it was over. "What the fuck."

"What we keep him and he eats our food, maybe slashes our throats away when we are sleeping. Or no wait, we let him go ? and he starves and goes mad in the jungle, sick with no aid? His mind has been rotted by disease. I saved him as much as myself and the rest of you"

"This is the kind of action that requires a discussion amongst the group godamnit" Anna proclaimed stepping forward into the face of Capt. Blush, Demanding an answer with her stare.

"I'd have to agree" I said taking the bottle back from one of the boys. Artcher was nodding.

"It would have been unanimous. I saved us time!" Blush said and laughed. He dismissed the anger Anna had directed at him and in french ordered the boys to pick up the body. He said something also that made them laugh. I have no clue what it was.

"No damnit this is not how were going to do thing" Anna continued, following Blush and his boys off the deck and toward the tree line. Blush strode alongside his boys who carried the body, one on either end, and continued dismissing Anna's objections untill they were out of earshot.

"Whats with Frenchie's fancy new attidude?" Artcher said standing up rifle in hand. He was feeling defensive and it could all be read in his posture.

"He's got 2 guys on his side now, Neither one of em' shittin' their pants anymore. Plus he's a leader. Taught or born. " I was looking off toward where they had gone into the trees. " Fuckin power trip."

"Godamn I really don't want to deal with any power-trip bullshit." Artcher said. "Theres always gotta be someone gettin' on this Power-trip bullshit man. Fuckin boyscouts, leave it to the french fuckin' boyscout to save our asses. Yeah right!" He was pissed. He got pissed alot.

"He was probably right about the rabbies thing. Ive seen it in a dog but never in a person. Simmilar. Creepy." I thought out loud. " Still, that was too bold a move. Least Anna's givin' em a talking to."

We were quiet until we heard Anna's sharp bark...

Baby-sit the Burglar

"Ok, you two babysit the burglar," Anna said to Artcher and myself ." I'll get us some drinks, calm the nerves?" and she walked off into the kitchen. 

"We will have a look at the area, make sure he has no friends." Frank, the oldest french boy, said. He wore a beard like me and Artcher, and all three of them wore the same green knit caps. I think they were part of a junior militia group in the south. They never specified but they were headed north, lost, when they came across the Compound, half starved and all three sick with dysentery. We let them stay with us in exchange for a chance at passage out of the country. They had 5 winning Ferry Lottery tickets. These tickets were given out in a lottery when shit hit the fan, Cambodia wasn't the place to be anymore. Too much disease, too many warring factions with far too much firepower, And no central structure to make sure things go smoothly.Bullets-The only balance there was.  It was chaos, it was painted pretty, but it was chaos. 5 tickets still left us 2 short of all being able to board, but we decided a plan would be developed as soon as the fellas were well. the youngest had just gotten over his sickness, it was the worst. He was in the outhouse at least 5-6 hours a day and constantly dehydrated to a dangerous point. Things began looking up for him, the other two had been well for some time.

They went off and eyed the tree-line, dipped in and out, really combing the place. Though it was grim, this was the boyscout's dream, and we all had a secret smile on about it.

The Thief on the floor began to move a bit and groan, his mouth was still shut closed and tight. The movements became more apparent and he got louder. his eyes  half opened, they were swollen, red, lots of mucus around them. He was defiantly sick with something. His jaw was still very tight and he now seemed to bee straining himself to open it and scream or shout something. Our suburban enclaves had quickly become breeding grounds for all sorts of mutating diseases. It was a perfect setting for them to spread and wipe out a whole Protectorate. Not very uncommon. Growing up I only experienced one large scale outbreak scare. Harrison college was populated by a sort of adapted tropical crow, engineered to pick off snakes and rats, any jungle vermin no one wanted around. A digestive enzyme they produced just so happened to mix quite devilishly with the measles and a horrifying strain of the ailment ran wild across the campus. Somewhere around 200 students died before the filth was eradicated. Not uncommon.

"Disgusting, we ought to kill him." Artcher suggested, staring blank face into the coughing bastards eyes.

"Get him some water." I said, we needed to know what was going on outside our immediate chunk of bullshit jungle.

"yeah yeah" Artcher went inside.

It was just me and the intruder , only for a second before Anna Came back outside with one of many bottles of wine in the cellar of the Compound. For that second I felt remorse for the poor guy, but as soon as Anna came out, the very second, I realized he wouldn't have hesitated to slit that innocent girls neck if it meant a few more shells, a tank of gas. I thought of shooting him.

Learning how to shoot a Man

...The Bullet had taken a size-able piece of human out of the Thief's right shin, it was 2 or three seconds before he began to scream and when he did it was a steady crescendo , reaching a plateu of which my own screams have thankfully never reached. It was disgusting and so violent there's no way it didn't cause his throat some extra pain. Most of all it was obnoxious, because i did not sympathize with the wretch. A quick tap of the boot and he slept like a baby.

This market my third knockout and second time carrying dead weight. Knockout one- enter 10th grade in  Harrison School for boys- Harrison protectorate- Cambodia, The whole day had been spent thinking about leaving the Corporate community of Harrison Pharm. but there didnt seem to be a way out. Cambodia was at the time being principally occupied by American refugees. The whole country was split up by Companies land grabbing - waving obscene amounts of nearly worthless money at the cambodian government and land owners and thusly conquering the country. Just a mad wilderness dotted with suburban neighborhoods, walled and self sufficient. There were people in the Wilderness aswell but they lived in a completely different way than Corperates. It was a mystery to me then, romantic and daring. I thought the way of life we were living would last forever, there were warnings but no one cared to change their ways. They just wanted to live. Normally. They somehow forgot they were in Cambodia. In strange communities, fake, and not very well though out. But in Harrison Protectorate you got to choose from 7 house styles and colors...These heavy thoughts can really piss you off and all it took was Austin Redding to come up and remind me he was fucking the girl I had first fallen in love with, Kid love, so nice. I broke his nose and didn't get to come back to school. He was out for 8 hours. The next knockout was an accident while Lifting Plastic beams over a fence. Turned around to fast and knocked one of the coolies right off his feet. Sorry dude.

The other time I had carried dead weight was when I was 8 and we were sure my good friend Eli had drowned. The river was moving faster than wed ever seen it, camping out in the jungle. We didn't take it as something dangerous, to us it was something fun. Eli jumped in first, then Jake, I was about to jump in when i saw Jakes face. His eyeline lead to a rock that had two little legs pressed up against it. On top of the legs were little upside-down feet and we both KNEW he was drown. Somehow we hauled him out of the water but knew nothing of resuscitation. We were too sure he was a goner. We carried him a mile back to our families camp sight. The parents erupted with questions and tears, the men scrambled to help Eli while the mothers hurled 700 words at once toward Jake and myself. Eli was fine, coughed some water and we went and ran about some more. I still count that as the first time I saw a dead body.

"I cant believe he got so far, Dyrell must have been really fuckin' up." Artcher said lifting the Thief's broken leg tenderly, we had questions to ask." Dyrells' pretty good usually, He was fuckin up."

"Good thing were here to clean up his mess. The fuckin asshole!" I said and we were both Laughing from the gut by the end of the sentence. Relieved we had recovered both the culprit and our goods, and without a scratch, it felt good to laugh.

Carrying This motherfucker through the jungle was one of the most tedious things Id had to do since our exodus, and the fall of the protectorates. There was literally no good way. The rain decided to pick up again, maybe it was a joke. When we made it back, everyone was on the porch smoking. Looking nervous before they saw us, and excited when they did.

"Way to go!" Anna shouted hopping off the porch. " oh wow you got our shit too! great" She grabbed the goods and tossed them up onto the porch again. Anna had been with us, me and Artcher, since we left Harrison. She was the daughter of a british family and hung on to the accent. Alot of accents disappear in Corporate but hers was strong. She was very much so an asset to our gang, she kept us level headed. 

"Did a number on that one then" Dyrell said helping us hoist the Thief onto the porch. " Im not much of a shot myself"

"Didn't notice" Artcher said with a laugh. If Artcher didn't know Dyrell as well as he had come too, he wouldn't dare make this kind of joke to the man. Dyrell was The biggest blackest man I had ever seen in my life. He could control a room the second he walked into it and just by guessing, Id say break bones just by looking at them. Around six and a half feet tall and 250 lbs , Dyrell was not to be fucked with. Unless of course he had a gun in his hand, in which case he was relatively harmless. Horrible shot "Horrible shot!"

That was the four of us. Our gang. There were 3 french Kids, about 19-22, they spoke english just fine but often chose to speak in french amongst themselves. We worked together, but stayed fairly separate. Now we were all here, together on the porch, with the unconscious Soldier-thief. It would be some time before he woke up. If I had hit Austin this hard, he would never have woken up.

. 

A Dimly lit porch, But I could still see His eyes.

All at once we were around a table, the intruder had been caught and was bound to a chair on the porch of the compound. The gang beat him to hell, his face was bloodied, and he had forgotten the meaning of pain. The rain was so heavy the punches just sounded like more mud being lapped. It all came together as the sound of rain.

I was one of two men holding guns at the time, being that myself and Artcher had just chased the bound and beaten bastard through a good half mile of jungle. Artcher had turned out to be a surprisingly well placed shot. Having had perfected his use of the Ruger No.1 that was in the manor when we came upon it (what we by this time were referring to as the compound), he had decided to adopt a sidearm, a S & W No. 3 .44 caliber godamn antique. It was marked as being from 1877 and there wasn't any doubt in my mind that this were true. Everyone was shocked when it actually fired. I had picked up a 12-gauge," Benelli Montefeltro- The rifle for the wing-shooting purist" read the small sign beneath the display I had ripped it from. I was lucky my house was 2 blocks away from a sporting shop when shit went down. 

Id only fired the thing twice up untill this evening; once in warning as I crossed paths with a group of youths with shivs and bats, Being a bandit was one way to go. And once to kill a dog we had found, 2 days into our hunger. We had to pull shot from our teeth every other bite but it might have been the best meal I have ever eaten.  Tonight I shot to kill, or stop. For us, it didnt matter at this point, it was a resource war and this sonofabitch had made off with a box of Pain killers, ( Very valuable when everythings gone to shit)  Two radios, some food stuffs, and 12 shells for my damn rifle. It was Dyrells watch , about the middle of the night, when he saw from outside looking into the kitchen, a complete stranger rummaging hastily through the containers we kept our vitals in. Thinking quick, or maybe not at all he fired two rounds from his 9- one hits the faucet and bounces twice around the room, the other clips the bastards elbow  and sends him flying out the closest exit, about 2 meters from Dyrell.( Upon looking in at the kitchen later, he didn't appear to drop anything atall.) "DROP THE SHIT ASSHOLE!" Dyrell shouted firing another round passed the fleeing theifs head. Now in the light, it was clear to see this man had once been in the military, United States get up, probably one of the splinter groups independently occupying Cambodia, our new home. He wasn't behaving as though he were a part of any organized group however. He wasn't armed, had no help, and was unshaven and filthy. The Paramilitary groups usually maintained some sort of civility. Order. Wed given up on trying to look presentable. They kept Kampong Thum clean,well, atleast they kept it calm. Long enough for us to get out and find a plantation to squat on.

Dyrell began to shout and within 3 shouts the hole gang was up and running. Artcher and I usually kept our shooters close for just such and occasion, it wasn't common but it was far from unthinkable. "Oh hell no they aint gettin' away with our -" Artcher shouted untill another gunshot rang out and we were out the door. 

My eyes almost immediately locked on the tan uniform bouncing into the tree line, much brighter than its surroundings, no attempt at camouflage , he was alone. "Artch! Right down there lets go!" I shouted jumping the 4 feet off the porch into a pool of mud and vine. The rain had just let up and had made sure we wouldn't forget it had payed a visit. I managed out of it quick enough, Artcher avoided it and we hit the tree line side by side. The thief had made good pace and gotten pretty well ahead of us but he was still visible. the terrain was getting worse every few meters, more climbing, jumping, often having the slide sideways between trees and bush. It feels foolish speaking of them as  two separate entities seeing as they had all grown together into one giant weave, almost impenetrable by foot.  The chase moved on as far as it could, about a half mile to the west bank of the Phumi sre veal. The last stretch of a large estuary into inner Cambodia. We caught up to him fast and saw him begin to throw the things he'd stolen down the first lip of a small canyon that lead down to the river. We both fired shots toward him, tearing up the greenery in every direction, sending it flying. A HIT! Artcher send a .44 round through the Thief's right shin, undoubtedly breaking it. He went straight to the ground without even a scream. I think he was in too much pain...

Now we had a prisoner. Our first threat to the compound. The trial was all that was left...

To be continued

The Three Drink Circus

I've spent enough time wondering if you're a waste, a wretch like most of the inwardly facing beauties the pavement has taken, a shit upward, fighting gravity. If you were it wouldnt be your own fault, and I'd never blame you. Its easy to fall victim to yourself. I do it every day. But something tells me, though you waddle around with the contents of your ego spilling as a trail behind you wherever you step, gravity dosnt care for Egos, for concepts, it knows your belly is full of shit. Maybe.

Ive spent time, across the room, thinking about weather or not I could fall in love with you, Generaly "Yes" is what I find, but spirits make my heart feeble.If I were to really explore, not on drink, what it is you have to offer, I think I would have to search too hard. But thinking is a flaw when it comes to this sweet bussiness of love, ugly bussiness as ruthless as any. More than thinking, drinking, and letting. Thats the place you seem like an angel. White bone shrapnel, black feathers, wide eyes. A caculated crooked smile, and if it isnt intentional- god save the girl who will never learn. Maybe.

Now, on the third drink, I realize its my fear of you that  births these judgments. My fear that the Ego I shit is visible next to yours. Ive seldom felt like a fake ,Naturally there are exceptions, but there's a certain grace mystery unleashes, and I hardly know you. I admire the pieces Ive seen and judge the ones I dont understand. You arent a wretch atall, and if you are, so am I. Im drunk again, and again, I'm saying "Yes".Maybe.

But thank everything you arent dumb.

You go to the forest to let it beat the city out of you

you come to the city to figure your place

and once you know it

there's no stopping you

nobody knows where i lost my mind, its been gone for a real long time, i know i should be hopefull but im just a hopeless man, its gone down the gutter down the can.

i was walkin through the woods to grab some flowers for my girl when i came upon a fungus that would alter my whole world, it only took one bit, and boy to my suprise, i dropped all of the flowers and i opened up my mind

nobody knows where i lost my mind, its been gone for a real long time, i know i should be hopefull but im just a hopeless man, its gone down the gutter down the can.

i was strollin in newyork with a real good pal of mine,well  wed search the streets fer baggies and wed sniff up what wed find, wed run around the town, yeah wed tear the place apart,till he found himself so wound up that he blew apart his heart

nobody knows where i lost my mind, its been gone for a real long time, i know i should be hopefull but im just a hopeless man, its gone down the gutter down the can.

The One Who Scowls

The one who scowls is the one I loved, or two or three-

Id fancy myself a scientist if it were an intentional affair-

but loving eyes, most often (for me), and in time, turn to scowling ones, or twos , or threes-

I've spent more than my fair share of time chasing this idea of unchanging eyes, eyes that stare consistently and never turn to narrow slits, the edges of which being sharp enough to pierce the thickest of hides, but there's been no end to this trail, and no dulling of these edges. This gimp I have, of crossing wires and electrocuting myself, has instilled a certain fear, and poignant is its stink and burn. But its foulness is not without character, like any good whiskey, it burns but there is some satisfaction to its bite. But unlike a good whiskey it is unpredictable in its far reaching effects. With the juice of the barley ill fall to the ground with a smile on my face, and wake with a frown, but the bite of these women comes days, months, even years after they've been ingested and purged, and is much more abrasive than the pains of an aching liver.

But so intoxifying are the effects of their sweet words and quaint laughs, crooked smiles and nuances, im drawn back and they're uncorked, sucked down and im weak, twice as much as the last time. They play a game against one another, these girls, these bottles of affection and nicety- without even knowing each-other as poisonous to the memory of the next, or last, and I suppose they arent the poison, its their memory,my memory. It comes back, the sweet parts, and the bitter parts as poetry, and all at once the taste of the bottle in hand is cheap, its not the same. And  "oh it will never be the same!" the old girl sings, and while I know it, I refuse it and go on foolishly drinking from both. My hangover is their scowls.

The Ape Dream

he Ape Dream The first time i had the ape dream-woke up in perill i had never seen the likes of, and i swore no one had, ever. It was the first dream id ever had with an ape in it, or any animal for that matter.Wasnt really interested in animals. The dream opened (and a very clearl opening, not so hazy as most dreams tend to be) withme and my family sitting on our couch, some on the floor, watching the telivision. It was about 8 O clock so the neighborhood outside the large window behind us was lit only by a difuse, weak but mystifying, terrifying light. leftovers, it was the carcass of the day and somehow even at 8 i knew that. everything was calm when i look over my shoulder, and i see one very large very agressive ape standing on the sidewalk only feet from the window- staring straight into my eyes.The next thing i know the ape has torn my whole family limb to limb, there are parts all around,but i am spared. The ape saunters out the open blood soaked door. (we hadjust put it in, it had a circle window in it, with cut glass shapes, they would refract the light and cause wild designs to be projeted on the wooden floor.The door was white.)The door was red. I wake up and scream, and spend the rest of the day making up stories or drawing pictures to distract myself from the gaze of this ape, the son of brutality and epitome of strength. my teacher at school sees this and im scolded "this isnt art class" then she takes the paper and her smile might aswell be a fart. "I wasnt drawing" i say, but she cant hear me.She was busy with my drawings.I imediatly find a page in the mathbook with nothing important on it. Nothing anyone would missand tear it out, fold it to a very small size. 'every little square will be its own sheet of paper' i decide. 'Way to go, you have so much paper'. I went on to make many drawings of mountains, stick people climbing,and with the green pencil i found in the desk drew fairly intense jungles. Before i knew it the day was over and i was getting into my Mothers car.It smelled like air conditioning. "how was your day"she asks turning about and looking back and forth between a thousand people and cars, using adult specialties to master the world. SOMEhow this brought me back, imediatly, to the ape staring at me from striking distance. I had seen 2 apes in my life, one at the zoo, sad and obsessed with shit, the other on a movie set, spastic and what i know now to be horny. I had a pretty good idea of how they moved andacted so i could form an idea as to how they would strike through glass to remove my face, or how it could open my door and massacre my family. "hows was school?....?"she asked again we were at a stop sign. "Good nothing happend" nothing had happend, and nothing mattered knowing that ape would come kill us all tonight anyway.I took dreams very seriously then, and often viewed them as predictions rather than creations. We got home and i sat around waiting for the sun to leave but the dead light to remain behind, rotting untill the moon cleaned things up.Finaly, the windows across the street stopped shinning, that meant the sun had 15 minuets, i was proud that i had figured this out because i was the only kid who didnt understand the math we were learning in school (and never would). Once i got over being proud i felt as though i might shit my pants again, because that ape was probably about 7 blocks away and i was ass-first in the couch, right where i was when he came to un build my family.But things didnt go the same as they did in the dream,Our neighbors came over, their son was my friend and we stayed in my room until the sun was completely gone. I told him about the ape and he explained his uncles friend got torn apart by an ape, we were both horrified and didnt leave the roomthe whole time. Finaly his parents came and grabed him and at first my fear was for him, seeing as he had to cross the street, out there to his house, ape country... I then realized he was gone and i was alone and it wasalmost time to sleep, it could get me in my sleep. Even if it never came, what if i dreamt of the ape again. The ape killed my family 6 or 7 more times. Once there were 2 apes, once 3 apes, but mostly 1 ape.And he had no trouble tearing off arms, breaking bone, stoping people from leaving the room by blocking the door with furniature.It seemed everynight that he stayed longer and took more time with his execution, and i realized at some point that it was directed at me.The room became a shrine to ape savagery.for weeks i couldnt stand to be in that room.The dream stopped coming and was replaced by other terrible nighmares, but none as vivid.I now know my friend's uncle's friend wasnt killed by an ape,and i cant say that hearing so didnt set me at ease even today.

Nevada Free City

He sat there with a more or less toothless grin, the few teeth

still bouncing around in his mouth stained by cheap red coyote

wine, his face unshaven and dry, sitting in a gutter in Navada

city, his eyes werent well, his liver was worse. All he had to

his name was a song about the troubles he lived and lovers hed

lost. The moon came up that night and burned a new hole in his

shirt, and the heat of the summer in the desert hinted this was

just the night's sun. His skin was that of an old leathery

indian and his heart was that of an amputee holding a dear john

in a meadow in the south, in the war.

His thoughts tricked each other, one thought led to another and

that thought was saying the preceding was bullshit.

When the dirt of an alley became the norm, he knew he wasnt a

hero, he knew he wasnt comin up again, not in this life. All he

had left to do was chase the corner and fall asleep, and when I

say fall I mean it quite literaly, falling harder into sleep

than someone would think such a gentle proccess could be

captured.

He sank into a sweaty mexican death-slumber, the kind he knew when he

was young and farming in the far far south, in the desert,

didnt grow much more than dirt but some how him and the

mexicans found enough scratch to pick up enough tequila, in

a clay jug, to heal their dry hands and cracked knees. This was

that sweaty drunks sleep, this time it was wine, but that night

sun was hot enough to shine on TJ aswell.

When he woke up he was dead and his skin was young,Who needs

a grave when Navada City is free.

take my limbs but fill my sockets

The love they did was without saying so.

Catching her eyes in passing, or catching them swiftly swinging away,She tells herself she wasnt looking at him but all he hears is the sound of her breath on a pillow, in a waking dream.

The looking was the love, and a glance was enough, but never enough.

-Please tell me your eyes sing the same song as mine, please tell me it is your voice im seeing and not just my own, reflected,and pleasing the senses.-

-It is my voice you see, and the song these eyes sing is silent, and is louder still than screaming my love-

-Ill give my lungs and nose and ears, just let me keep these eyes for to sing to you, across a room, a table,take my legs for this love needs no transit,take my arms for no words or amount of waring could show the truth of that glance, leave me my eyes but take all else, none of it has worth, and none of it could I share, not like a glance, those glances-

He would pray if he had a god, pray that she would break his back, his heart, his soul,

-please let it be her who sends me to my grave, not by greif but by a new and potent sorrow-

-The day you close your eyes, or the day I close mine, this is the day your song turns to liquid and hits the floor, sadness so rich you would sleep, and never cry again, never look again, and never glance again-

-I would die if ever she blinked-

I hope Im not cold all day-- Woa-full desert lust and delirious depressive madness

Dried blood rested in his cuticles,it could look like anything,

in the fire it looked black, but Ben knew it was Blood.Ben saw

it before the sun set,before it turned black.

The week had started off with a day like any week, moday, and

it was atleast a cool one hundred degrees by 10 O'Clock. As was

the fashion for a man of his stature, Benjerman Hattock III

tipped a glass to the rising sun as he packed up his tent,

glancing up frequently to look at the town bellow. He didnt

need a pocket watch to tell it was time to go on down.

Benjerman Hatock III,Now I want to know where thu tails are.

Ben was straight faced and his bristle-bramble sonofabitch

thorn stalk mustache didnt flinch a godamn hair.

Down the road, right at the Shoe and Hat, youll see it, couple

fellows out front, one with a rifle, one with a handfull of

forms,wearin a hat.

Spoken as the Shopkeeps throat shook in fear.

it was a three minuete walk to the steps of the whore house.
And there they were.
The man with the rifle had bright blue eyes and his orange

beard was almost white,his hair was full of dust and would have

hung low if it wasnt pushed, or shoved back.He wore old Union

slacks and shoes that had also seen a war, shoes that had

stepped on loved ones, kicked brothers, and trudged through

discarded limbs in search of a better place, only to find

himself old and on the steps of awhore house, only to find the

dreams he once had of family, and of when he would smile, and

not only when matters were perverse.Shoes that walked proudly

for a nation, and were now stained with whiskey-vomit.His

parents were dead and they never knew he lasted the war.

The fellow with the hat was younger, and had a smart look to

him, his grin was crooked and he had a quill and desk,right on

the porch, which surley proved to Ben, this man is a crook.

Gotta have yer name Brother if your gonna be Kissin my Sisters

yehearme? 
and he laughs.

Ben let loose the three letters he really knew B-H-III and

droped the quill.

Play nice and dont fall too hard , they aint in it for yer

heart!
and he laughs.

The front room even stank of nudity and sweat.

Ben wanted nothing more than to find his girl and get into the

room.

There were people around him.

A very thin man with sweaty trousers and an undershirt sat

touching the knee of some quiet nervous but accomedating young

mexican girl with a white womans dress on her shoulders.

A few men sat together at a table near the right wall passing a

bottlearound and speaking loudly, all things began to spin

andeveryonesvoices

beacmeblured,BencouldnolongerdiscernallthesoundsGLASSESandDEEPB

ROWNWOODimages,utterconfusionSINGING--

as soon as every spinning sound was quiet, they were back, but

in order, and Ben sat opposite a miniature girl, with features

like that splashing milk, the curls and bends of its shape when

it flies outward, when a drop hits the floor, those soft round

edges, all of them,borne in this young woman, no, this girl.If

a throat could speak liquid hers would speak this white white

milk, so quiet.

its very nice to meet you...
her eyes widen.

Ben-n
He says with his lips but not his voice, the air sent from his

lungs to propell the name forth left his being but the sound,

the melody of his speach, never escaped.

Ben,my brother's dogs named Ben..
she laughs.

Ben looks at the floor, his face would never say what he was

thinking ,so fast and deeply,he wanted nothing more than to

talk to this girl, to say all the things he thinks in his days,

in his days on the plains, in his days stealling cattle, more

so in his days relaxing drunkly in the tall grass breathing

warm air and looking at the still illuminated but sunless

sky.In his days when smilling tears threatend to roll down his

face but are dammed by the tightness of his jaw, and his teeth.

Thinking of finding a soft girl to treat well and learning what

it feels like to love someone, but here in this room, that

resembled a shack amongst a stack of shacks,a chicken coop for

fucking, in the desert, all that would leave his throat was

air, and his nerves released how they always did, he pushed his

teeth together so hard his gums bled.

he took the love from her, all of it, he didnt remove his

boots, he quickly left,he quickly droped his bills on the

floor, and he slowly shut the door behind himself as not to

disturb the crying girl.He was never afraid of blood before.

Tonight ill set my tent up, tomarrow ill try to make some

money,I hope it isnt hot tomarrow, I hope im not cold all day.

Providents

When the metal bent and the glovebox opened I was wide

awake.

Id been thinking lately what a horrible idea automotive

transport is, and my beleifs have only now been more deeply

affirmed. I think car crashes are just a good excuse to

comfort your friend.

"Im sorry"
"Dont appologize for good weather and good company, Id have

it no other way"

Providents, were we saved from our collective Rut? Neither

one of us was happy alone but sitting on a curb with

anti-freeze on my shoes I got to thinking, and from there

saying, and from there joking, then smiling.

Now im tired and the sky isnt blue and cold like it was,

reflected in my shit-black-freeze-shine shoe-boots.First

you were cigarettes, now youre anti-freeze, how am I going

to explain that.

Who cares,
Dont runaway,but please dont give in, cause then ill have

to give in.

Ill add Anti-freeze to my list of assorted grimes I find

comforting,along with Engine grease,Shoe Polish, whatever

it is that all raw-stock metals sweat on to your hands to

make them blacker, and far too dirty for the table.

And Ill have a smile everytime I see an open glove box,

because it dosnt matter why its grinning, I am too.

Pungee spike fucking and the art of abandonment.

As i scaled the face of the earth, i found a new breed of

man, here lay the beast of science, an Asiatic goddess of

viral fads and speech.

nothing was left but a muggy apartment, a half full beer

and a knowledge that could span a thousand lifetimes

without being heard, or appreciated.

the hint of surprise and actually meeting it are two

different things.

The hint is a birthday surprise, there is expectancy of some

sort, weather or not its specific is up to chance, but

meeting with the rock face of a cliff after a stroll past a

tall bush, then drinking your own hot salty death on the

beach while you hear your friends scream is real

surprise,along with beastly hugs and a pressing on the leg

where once your aunt hadn't pressed.

"thick vines are nothing compared to thin wires" said the

vet with his hands held out to explain, or rather enunciate

physically the truth he had come to know. "Vegetation aint

shit when slant-boys done created trip wire,flowers aint

pretty, grenades in soup cans, American soup cans, that's

pretty"

and the Vietnamese General's daughter came to the states as

a son.

a tall son with thick arms made for carrying mounted

weaponry or operating artillery,instead the arms were sent

to massage and relax the bones of ruined American men,

ripped clean from cleanliness by whistling mortars, by

howling ricochets,by sinking ships, by men made into dogs

and dogs made into breakfast, godamn ill tell you i didnt

have to be there to know the taste of fur in your stew, the

general's daughter-son told me with its eyes and its lack

of care, lack of tenderness,and lack of regret, it would

have made a perfect soldier but the south "won" and north

Vietnam has no room for faggots.

If it wasn't in the east,it would have been the west, but to

say it was without reason is wrong, because when your stock

is drenched in blood and sweat,the reason your there is to

stay alive, and thats as good a reason as any as far as I

can see.

beauty doesn't grow on trees, and it sure as hell doesn't grow

on Vietnam.

SPODEODEE

If my head weren't so weighty, my pillow wouldn't be so soft.

if your back weren't so comforting, my hands wold feel less rough.

 

the truth of the matter is my plight is less than horrid, my attitude is worse than life yields, and im thankful that im not the last verse, but rather the middle verse, surrounded by poetry.

Eat SHIT AND NOT MOTHERFUCKER

Sitting in a species that gives itself too much credit, you can

see the ones that deserve it.

I cant honestly say I'm proud to be human.I do what I can to be

good at humanness,but even doing your best as a human isn't all

that spectacular.It takes alot of effort sure, but so do alot

of things that aren't impressive.

If you learn to ride a horse, you can then travel swiftly

across the Field.But the horse already knows swiftness,and

doesn't try to be swift, it simply is.

The one thing Ive learned, being human, is that fundamentally,

we simply aren't.and what makes us what we are, is what we

aren't.

I'm not fast, but if I learn to drive a car, I'm fast. The only

reason I'm fast, is because I wasn't.

I think we must be the only species that isn't so many things.

A rat is everything it is, and shruggs insecurity and the

thought of falling short without any effort,not even no effort,

it just is what it is.It will eat,breed, and die.

I will eat breed and die, but the whole time ill be making sure

all the things I'm not-become things I am, because naturally, I'm

not.Just not.

You aren't either, you will be, and the second you are, you wont

be again because you ll discover something else you aren't, you

will become that, then you aren't something new.

Soil feeds plants.soil is what it is, and its not nothing

at all.its everything that it is, no more no less.

I suppose the root of the problem comes from striving to be,

not the actual being or not being, but trying to be, because

if you don't try to be anything, you are something, but as long

as you try, you re never anything, youre just trying.

Sitting in a species that gives itself too much credit,I cant

help but try to put it into words, but just like rats, words

are without me, but I'm not without them.

Of Moons on Hills

of moons on hills

I can only think of the moon as huge when its low in the sky.

The higher it gets, the less impressed I am untill I dont have a care at all.

Then the sun becomes impressive and I forget the moon all together.

The sun gets higher and Ill complain and wish the moon was back.

But the moon's blessing only lasts as long as the hills are high.

Of Moons on hills
Of gods and shaking earth
of suns on parade
and of suns taking shade.
Does it give light
or does it steal shade.
It makes oranges grow
But the moon makes the waves grow.
They both take
they both give
but together they are nothing.exactly nothing.

the Backwoods Dinning Society

PLeasantly PLucking PLum sat neath the electric candle-scene PLeasantly Plucking.
BRauwney BOwry SAint chalrie McGeen drank quietly pouring his stream.
MUmblin MUzzy WAter on the Colorado broke glass on the trees and belched like a frog.
DINNER was called and each one of the congregated above a table of greens, all sorts of vegetables, fruits,and cooked vermin.
GRINS EXPLODED! the feast began and the backwoods dinning society celebrated 100 hundred marvelous dinners together.Mead and Wine Flew Freely from cask to dome.They ate all they were able and fell on the warm summer grass on the bank of the river.The Moon Had Risen and the stars came along for the ride, all of them, not just the ones that seem to visit city's, bold stars.
all six eyelids closed at the same time, opening wasn't the matter at hand, for now they were closed.
beware backwoods dinning chaps, for when your eyes open in the cloud drenched morn,your backs will ache and the world will blossom into a great complaining monstrosity of pent up angst and electricity, too much to handle, to much, so much in fact that it spills into the street and you must sometimes hop overa puddle of it or risk being mortaly shocked, of course adding to the generalized and now o-so-o-so normal anxiousness of the trembling citizens.
but next Thursday the river will call and your eyes will colapse in form, united, and all that will matter are these dreams,hang in there chaps, 101s on the way!

The furniture in Venice

Some people will have it no other way than to say "The furniture in Venice is the most intricate and ornate furniture in the world."

 

the shapes of my messy room are more ornate than the furniture in Venice.

The Alternate King on his Throne of Thrift

He sat lower than low on his throne of thread, teaming and bursting with societies of its own, with termite kings managing termite knaves, and a tick who was the outcast.

The kings home was furnished with the most lavish and elaborate curls and bends in history, crafted by the corossive powers of lazyness and neglect, these shapes could never be replicated, not by the finest artist,and over no amount of time, truley his palace was one to be remembered, but never exactly, there was too much to remember, for any one person to record, bottles and papers and fine clothing stretched themselves across the scape, to show this king was consumed in his own wealth.

 

he sat nestled in his throne, his eyes blinking once white then forever red, to turn to jelly, to turn to the television, to turn to water, and to disapear