James Kwapisz

Poems and Stories

Post-Haze

The summer came and went like a whisper
you couldn’t decipher, could not care
to decrypt, for it was not for you
outlying, eavesdropping on some strangers’
banter muddled under the hum of cicadas
clamoring in the sun, articulating
their secret mystic rituals
gesticulating themselves out their skins
writhing in rhythms already written
all to echo on their antecedents’
form, their origin, their destination;
spasmodic, they seize their intermittent
season.

Deaf to the whole rigmarole, you cling
hollow to a sprig of grass or a fray of branch
whimpering on the wind like the shell
cast from its host, like the casing
of a legume long since consumed
cleaves to the tooth and coats its youth
with cavity, with depression.

The cicadas scream in the sun
as their husks hold fast to some vain
redemption as the cicadas scream carpe diem!
as an old lover’s mandibles pass the curd
to the tongue, as the fangs dull and rot
as the cicadas die in the sun.

Appeal To The Void

We can make this life thing seem
a pretty dream—see the back
of a quarter: the state of Arizona
encapsulated by an idyllic sunset splashing
its rays across the Grand Canyon, cacti
scraping the sky;
Washington, stern and grave,
his head turned from the symbol
weighing the gravity of the illusion:
this majestic desert is desolate
and barren, this golden sunset
silver—and yet all this
but a quarter, and
at the same time
all but a quarter.

It’s all pointless, you say—
but what of the space
between the ears that hear
these undulated utterances
and behind the eyes that see
these figures, these encrypted dances
where there was once morbidity—nothing—
where now postulates the possibility
of something?

Is this not the very tale
of our origin
or, perhaps, some small-scale
repetition, all bound in the nothingness
of a circle?
Bound, yet freed of its edges—
so yes, it’s all pointless.
Like a coin. Like any heavenly body
dimmed or illumined
by death or gravity.

Bodies Like Scaffolding

Gunther sat at his kitchen table with his elbows perched on the edges as he stared into his coffee. There were bits of grounds stuck to the sides of his cup which he poked at and slid up and out one by one so that he would not drink them. He moved swiftly, for his morning beverage would not stay warm long. When the exposed porcelain was without a spot he dared a sip, but gently, should he stir the inevitable grounds from their bedding at the bottom of the cup. The sound of the screen door slamming shut startled him, disturbing him from his careful venture.
“What’s up, pop?” said Axel, studying his father hunched over the table spitting repeatedly into his cup and perusing his cheeks and gums with his tongue.
“Dang apparatus can’t keep the beans out,” Gunther replied. He spat.
“Probably ain’t usin’ it right. You press it down slow, like I shown you how?”
“Sure ain’t like Lou’s. Never had to worry about no dregs at Lou’s.”
“That’s ‘cause that wasn’t no coffee, that was water. This here’ll make you a decent cup.” Axel held the French press aloft and swirled whatever was left and examined the contents. “You done pressed it down too fast.”
“I pushed it just fine.” Gunther cleared his throat. “I ‘preciate ya gifting me it, Ax, I do, but it’s just junk. Don’t work as it should. Thing is, I prefer to drink my coffee.”
“You’ll figure it out, pop.”
“Sure hope so.” He grunted. “Sure hoped Lou’s wouldn’t of been run down by them condominium tycoons plowin’ over the whole damn town either, but that’s the world we live in. One thing keep replacin’ the other, don’t matter if it’s broke or not. Whatever makes they pockets fattest. Speakin’ of which, time to tend to the coops, I suppose.”
“Still gettin’ them threat letters in the mail?”
“Yep.” He sighed as he stabled himself with the table and rose from his seat. “No man can’t raise any kind of farm in this country without the damn gov’ment breathin’ down his neck.” He fished the last ground from his molar, spat into his cup and tossed it carelessly towards the sink.
Shocked by the shattering of the porcelain, Axel blurted, “What’s going on, pop?”
Standing in the doorway, without facing his son, he said, “Do I really got to get into it? Can’t ya tell? That’s the trouble with yer generation. Need everything spelled out for ya.”
“Well, ain’t you gonna sweep the shards up from the floor?”
“That ain’t the important thing here, boy. Why don’t you get back to your hocus pocus or whatever it is your practice and let me alone now.”
He slammed the door behind him and hobbled out to the dilapidated chicken coops strewn along his meager acreage, leaving Axel to his ruminations. Axel stared at the shards splayed across the linoleum floor for a while, until he could no longer resist the urge to clean the mess. Such was his nature, be the dilemma miniscule or other. The fragments of the cup took on a life of their own and Axel would see to it that their unity be restored.
The sentimentality Axel had attached to the cup his father did not see. To his father, a thing was a thing, and it ended there. He, however, saw worlds through and beyond the object at hand. This cup was not just a cup. He had bought it for his father along with the French press in an attempt to console him after Lou’s, the diner he frequented every day before and occasionally after work, had closed down. Out this cup, Axel had thought, my father will finally experience some quality. But what Axel did not understand was that his father did not incorporate the diner into his daily ritual for the coffee but for the rapport he had had with Lou.
Lou was a gruff old man five or ten years Gunther’s senior. Although their friendship was rooted in their brooding over their lost world, it was friendship all the same. Many bonds are made through common hatred—it happens all the time. Had you been at Lou’s in its prime eavesdropping on the grumpy owner and the equally grumpy regular’s banter you would hardly have thought to call them friends. Neither man possessed the courage nor saw the necessity to declare it verbally, but deep within them, past their tough, life-hardened exteriors they knew what warmth lived between them.
“Damn kid’s lost his wits,” Gunther would say of his son.
“Ain’t your fault, Gunth,” Lou would reply. “A man cain’t keep his boy in line this day and age. Every boy’s gotta choose between the word of his father and that of the world he live in. Boys today ain’t got the sense nor the specs to see through the whirlwind of shit they diseased present’s a-spewin’.”

With devout diligence, Axel pieced and glued his father’s cup back together. Having not looked up from his work since he began, his heart nearly pummeled his ribs through when he saw the time. Frenzied, he ran about the house in search of all he’d need for work and once he had everything messily upgathered in his arms he rushed out the door, leaving the cup atop the stove.
The relief he felt upon entering his studio did not last, for, while there were no regular members at his door angry with him for his tardiness, there were no regular members. The few who had attended his sessions were from out of state, Northerners and Californians usually. Not one who appeared at one session appeared at another. Most were only passing through on business or on vacation touring the distilleries. His studio was not supported by the locals, and its proximity to the condominiums did not help his case. Both stood in the place of long beloved establishments which were run by the families whose ancestry laid the very foundations of the town. And although the bitter remnants of these families and other indignant locals did not understand yoga and holistic healing, because the studio could be seen within the same plane of sight as the condominiums their ignorance was easily projected as dislike or even hatred.
In his empty studio he laid out his mat and began his morning routine, though now that it was mid-afternoon his rhythm was offset. Oscillating between cow pose and cat, Axel opened his eyes to find “Mr. Kentucky” Kerchief scowling at him through the windowfront. Kerchief was a large, barrel-chested man whose half bald head sat sunk between his shoulders as if his neck had become reclusive in his broad frame for the whole of the bitter winter that was his life. Grimacing at Axel, he knocked on the glass with the knuckle of his forefinger. Axel exhaled and rose from his mat to answer Kerchief’s beckoning.
“Why, hello there, Mr. Kentucky,” Axel said, holding the door open. “Come on in.”
“I’m fine just where I stand.”
“Oh. Well—what can I do ya for?”
Kerchief appeared confident and full of premeditated sentiments but when he ventured to speak he struggled to articulate himself as he had planned. “Your daddy know what you’re doing here?”
“Well, I tried explainin’ it to him, but I’m not so sure he understood. He’s got a vague idea up in that hard old noggin of his, but he don’t—”
“He know you prance around and put yourself in shapes no man should assume? You queer, boy?”
Axel knew before he answered the door the nature of Kerchief’s inquiry. He had grown accustomed to such philistinism in the three months his business had been in operation.
“Was just stretchin’, is all. It’s good for ya.”
“Don’t tell me what’s good for me. God’s good for ya. I don’t know what it is exactly you got goin’ on here but it sure as hell ain’t Christian.”
With perfunctory expressionlessness, Axel retorted, “No, I’m quite certain Jesus wouldn’t mind none.”
“Ya back-sassin’ me, boy?”
“No, sir. In fact, I think he’d be quite pleased with all the healin’ takes place in this very room.”
Kerchief’s brow rose as if God had bowed the arc of the covenant clear across the reddened firmament that was his face, as if this perceived blasphemy was the tempest that would be calmed by his faith alone.
“Never see you on Sundays—not e’er since you put this place up, that is.”
“I been busy.”
“Too busy for the Lord?”
“I get my prayin’ done just fine. I don’t need your snarky ass there watchin’ me, judgin’ me if I’m doin’ it wrong.”
“You—”
“Oh, get on now.”
Axel turned from the doorway, letting the door swing closed behind him.
Muffled through the glass, Kerchief shouted, “See how long your damned voodoo shop stands once folks hear tell down at the distillery!”
Axel sat on his mat like a lotus and attempted to empty his mind but he could not rid Kerchief’s red, snarling face from the blacks of his eyelids. Though angry was he with the man, angrier was he with himself. If you become angry, you have already lost the battle, was his mantra. No good would come of his outburst, he knew. Now he was flustered and now Kerchief would deter potential customers from supporting his already failing business. Mr. Kentucky’s Bourbon was the most renowned distillery of all those that lined the brim of Jefferson County, and tourists would often consult him as to the lay of the land and he would have answers for them. Because the majority of those who passed through the town solely in search of whiskey were of a secular nature, they found Mr. Kentucky’s overt pious demeanor a novelty typical to ‘a place like this.’ The few who had met Axel were surprised by how ‘down-to-earth’ he was, and some even were disappointed. Later that day one such woman, who Axel found to be, despite his awry beliefs, divine, inquired about the nature of his difference from the rest of the townsfolk after a session she described as transcendental.
“I never thought I would feel so at ease in the midst of the Bible Belt,” she told him. “Whenever I step foot in a church, which is rare—so rare that I can’t seem to remember the last time I found myself in one—but I feel like I have a vague remembrance of feeling like my blood was curdling. I couldn’t do it. How do you stay sane here?”
Axel chuckled with relief. “Well, I do feel myself an outcast, what with all the old world thinkin’ pervadin’ this town. It’s real hard to reach most of ‘em. Can’t talk sense to some old coot thinks the world came about six thousand years ago. I try and tell ‘em…dinosaurs—”
“Yeah, like there are volumes of scientific data. I don’t trust anyone who takes that shit literally.”
Their laugher filled the empty studio. Lillian was her name. Axel repeatedly pronounced each syllable slowly in his mind as he looked into her vibrant, green-eyed face. She looked at him, and then lied lazily back on her mat. Staring into the void of the ceiling, she asked, “When did you first stop believing in God?”
Before he could bring himself to speak he arighted himself against the wall and looked over her lying there, searching for her eyes but her gaze remained intent on the ceiling. He began by explaining that he did not necessarily believe in nothing at all but that the word God was subject to semantics and that that ambiguity should be respected rather than to impose the concrete on something so abstract. While she was vaguely in agreement, she cut him off to remind him of her original question: “When, though?”
He slouched against the wall and relaxed himself. He matched her calm tone and spoke as if mesmerized by the foreign fluidity of his words and the comfort with which he related to her the memory.
When he was eleven years old, his mother, rest her soul, thought it would be good for him to serve the Lord as an altar boy at the St. Pius Church of the Immaculate Conception. Even then, he found the whole ceremony of it to be quite peculiar. The people—the same people he would see arousing debauchery when his father would, for lack of funds for a sitter, bring him along to the bars—were now reserved and respectful because they were in the house of God. In neat lines the procession shuffled through the aisles and all would assume the same pews each had sit in the Sundays prior as if rehearsed, as if the whole delicate ritual would be disturbed if one were to venture to sit in a new seat. In his hands he held a large candle upright, and he remembered the strain he had felt in his forearms more vividly than the purpose of their being gathered there together. Former friends of his, too, held candles aloft and one at the forefront held a gilded cross that wavered with his steps. All proceeded down the middlemost aisle, their footfalls evenly placed and paced as if they themselves were masters no longer of their own movements but subject to and strung along by some invisible force unknown to them. They took their places on the stage on either side of the priest, pale and statuesque, with his long arms raised over the altar in welcome. He looked briefly over his shoulder and sneered at one of the boys who had not been in the position so ordained in their choreography. Axel straightened his spine and set his shoulders back so that those leering eyes would not fall on him. He stood woodenly, so stiff you could scarcely tell if he were a thing that harbored life, as he looked on at the crowd. All were seated.
“Please rise.”
All were now standing. The priest issued a few sentiments concerning some matters local and global, gave thanks to regular benefactors of the church, and then began his sermon. And while the priest illustrated how Jesus suffered for the sins of man, Axel endured a struggle of his own as the hot wax of the candle he held dripped sporadically onto his head. Only those who possessed a short attention span for the sermon and a keen eye for extraneous details noticed him wince at each drop. For fear of compromising the integrity of whatever message the priest was trying to get across to his audience, Axel remained still. The smell of his hair and scalp burning reached the noses of the boys standing nearest him and they snickered when they saw its origin but were quickly hushed by the decrepit woman sitting behind the organ.
He wondered if it was for God or simply for the people around him that he suffered his silent martyrdom. Over the course of the sermon he grew accustomed to the pain and when it subsided enough for him to divert his focus he listened to the priest’s words and in them he could find little relevance to his own life. It seemed to him as if the cause of this congregation was to celebrate the pain of a man who lived two thousand years ago, yet if he expressed his own in the selfsame setting he would be reprimanded. Here he stood alive in his youth yet all eyes, hearts, and minds were fixed on the corpse of a man who had died so long ago, a man whose existence was tangible only in the tangles of text written so very long ago. He thought about how the symbol trumped presence; he thought of his agony and that of the metallic cadaver hovering above him and while he knew and could feel one to be real the other filled him with doubt.
Now chains of people lined the aisles all in wait to receive the Eucharist. One by one they consumed His blood and nibbled away at His body. Then they blessed themselves and took their seats and regarded the remainder of the savage symbolic feast.
“It started off fine,” Axel said to Lillian. “But then that candle started drippin’ and within a minute’s time I was expulsed from a nice get-together and sent to some underworld cult ritual, so it seemed.”
Lillian could not help herself from bursting out in laughter.
Axel smiled. “No hair’s grown in the spot since. Look.” He leaned over to show her.
“Perfect size for one of those little hats—what are those called?” She looked him over. “You know, put a robe on and you’d pass for a fine friar.”
They laughed and when they were done laughing they both sighed at the same time and then they laughed some more.
Axel looked at her. “So, what saved you from believin’?”
She stopped laughing. “Uh, I guess it was when my mother and father dropped dead within a week of each other.”
“I—I’m sorry. That’s— Wha-what happened to them?”
“Must’ve been an act of God!” she said mockingly. “No, I don’t know. We didn’t have too many relatives, and the few we had were not the kindest people—not awful but not kind enough to pay for two autopsies. And my brothers and I sure as hell couldn’t afford that shit. We were so young, we didn’t have any money. And the little our parents had went to funeral costs.”
“My ma died early on too. Cancer. Just me and my pop now. I sure wish I had brothers—ya close with ‘em?”
“Yeah, yep, with one especially. The others live in New York so we don’t see them too often. Greg and I flew out here to check out that good ole Kentucky bourbon. But he’s done from last night—he was hammered. Don’t think he’ll make it out for round two.” She got up from the floor. “Would you want to join me? You could show me the hidden wonders of this little town.”
Axel’s face lit up. “Sure! Sure, yeah, let’s do it. Let’s get to it.” He rose from his mat. “There is one place we’ll need to steer clear of though.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
He smiled. “I’ll tell ya as we make our way over.”

When Gunther, after a long day in the coops, walked into his house the first thing he noticed was the cup. He was surprised to see it intact but even more so that the stove had been left on all day.
“Kid’s got a big heart, just wish his brain was as big.”
The stove was set to Lo and in fact it was he who had left it as such. Countless years of drinking had addled his memory significantly and as of late he had fallen into the habit of passing blame on his son for his own follies. It was easier than taxing his mind with the task of recollecting what he may or may not have done. He cursed the electric stove and rued the day he let Axel coerce him to get rid of the old gas one.
“Can’t even tell if the damn thing’s on or not. Well, s’long as it’s hot might as well make another batch.”
He shucked his bloodied apron over his head and slung it carelessly over a chair, and then he washed the blood from his hands before he filled a kettle with water. He moved the cup to the counter then set the stove to Hi and placed the kettle on the reddening coil.
Exhaling as he sat, he reflected how this was his favorite part of the day. He put up his feet on the other chair at the table, set his head back, rested his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose and he exhaled a long wind through his mouth.
All at once the kettle whistled its insistent whistle and the screen door gusted open.
“Pop!” Axel exclaimed. “Ay, pop, what’s doin’? Makin’ coffee? Say, there’s someone I want ya to meet.” He spoke rapidly and his words were slurred as they could not keep up with his excitement. “Name’s Lillian.”
Gunther squinted up at his son and raised his brow quizzically.
Lillian stumbled up the steps and through the doorway. “Heh—hello there. It’s a pleasure to meet you… Sir.”
Gunther turned to look at her. He nodded but he did not say anything to her.
“Here, here, Lillian. Take a seat.” Without seeing his father’s feet propped up he pulled the chair out. Gunther jerked forward and grunted.
“Oh, sorry, pop—hey, you know the kettle’s goin’ off, don’t ya?”
Gunther sighed and started up from his seat but Axel stopped him.
“Naw, sit, sit. I’ll whip it up right, show you how it’s done.”
“I can do it just fine, you little shit,” Gunther muttered.
Lillian averted her eyes to the cardinal clock on the wall.
“Was jus’ tryna help, is all.”
Gunther got up and looked into his son’s wheeling, bloodshot eyes. “Ya wanna help how ‘bout ya put in a real day’s work tendin’ to them chickens out in them coops. Could make work light for yer old man ‘stead I’m out there hackin’ away and collectin’ a million eggs and breakin’ my spine while yer sprawlin’ and rollin’ around on cushions all damn day. They’s the Y downtown—what need’s there for yer little ‘business’? Hell, can’t even call it that. Can’t call a place a business if there ain’t no busy-ness, and frankly I ain’t seen a soul in there.”
The kettle whistled incessantly. Axel opened his mouth as if to retort, then he looked at Lillian and turned his back to his father and resumed the process of preparing the coffee. He took the kettle off the coil and reached in a cabinet for the bag of beans. Under his shaky wrist some water spilled from the kettle and hissed on the coil.
“Not one soul. Not even—”
The blaring drone of the beans grinding drowned out his father’s voice. He kept his hand pressed firm on the grinder until the grounds were so fine they would dissolve without stirring.
“That’s right, boy. Keep ignorin’ your old man. So sensitive, never could withstand the hard lessons of life. Now look at you. Useless.”
“He’s not useless,” said Lillian.
“You mind your own now, miss.”
“He’s not useless, you old crank. You know, you could use a little sensitivity. Maybe then you’d see that your son is beautiful—he’s great. He’s—”
“How would you know? What’d ya just meet him today?”
“Uh…yeah, but—”
“But nothin’. Can’t tell shit from a day’s time.”
“That’s untrue. I can see that he’s a good person. He helps people.”
“Helps people. Helps people how?”
“Today I walked into his studio with an aching back—I could barely reach down to tie my shoes—and when I walked out I felt like a fucking gymnast.”
“But how’d he do it? I need proof.”
“It’s called reiki, sir.”
“It’s called what? I don’t trust it. Sounds like hocus pocus to me. Back in my day they’d just throw ya in a splint and you’d be fine.”
“Times have changed. We have evolved,” Lillian said flatly.
“O sweet God, Ax. You bring another one of your heathen friends in my home again and I swear—”
“You’ll do what? Hit him? He’s a grown man now, you can’t—”
Axel grabbed her shoulder. “Stop, stop! There’s no use. He ain’t never gonn’ listen.”
“Get this yankee whore out my house!” His eyes twisted with rage and concern, fatherly, Gunther prodded his son’s chest with his forefinger.
“I’m from California,” Lillian said. “Sir.”
“Don’t make no damn difference. I know your kind. Come here all haughty and drink up all our whiskey and laugh at us simple country folk. Then you slink back to whatever city you crawled out of and cackle away with your godless friends at our expense. Ax, you think this witch has actually taken a likin’ to you? You must be blinder than a mole rat. She only thinks yer special ‘cause yer a smidge like her, but just a smidge, make no mistake. No matter how hard you try to stray, the marrow in yer bones and the blood in yer veins’ll always be of good ole Kentucky stock, never forget that.”
“I know what I am,” Axel said, “and I know what I ain’t.”
Lillian smiled up at him and he caressed her shoulders. He leaned to her ear and told her, “Listen, I think you better get on till this blows over. I’ll call you once I get him settled.” He walked her to the door.
Gunther sat back in his chair and, with his arms folded over his paunch, grinned at her as she walked out of his house.
Axel closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry ‘bout all this. He’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain anything. I’m just sorry you have to deal with this every day.”
“So, I’ll see you later?”
She gave him an ambiguous smile. He gave her money for a cab but she refused and said she would walk. He began to give her directions to her motel but she said, “I’ll just wander. I’ll find my way.”
He kissed her on the cheek and she smiled. She walked down the driveway and around the bend and then she was gone.
The smirk he had expected his father to be wearing was right there planted on his face when Axel walked inside.
“Lillian, eh? Lillith’s more like it.”
Axel shook his head.
“Bet she asked you to move to California with her, didn’t she?”
He grinned. “Naw, I wish. She did say I should visit though. Would be nice to see an ocean.”
“Ocean? What need you of an ocean when you got rivers? Way I see it, oceans’ the void of death, rivers’ the veins of life.”
“You’re a real poet, pop.”
Axel poured the grounds from the grinder into the French press then added water and stirred. He put the top on the press so that the coffee would not lose heat.
“Well. We gonn’ drink it or not?”
“Patience. Gotta let it set.”
“Lou woulda had a cup ready ten minutes ago.”
“Well Lou’s is gone and you gotta accept that. You’re the one always tellin’ me to appreciate what I got. And what you got here is better than what you had, so quit your complainin’.”
“I suppose you’re right, son. I do suppose you’re right.”
Axel turned to the sink to wash the wet grounds from his hand. He smiled to himself. “Smell that, pop? Gonna be the best damn cup of mud you ever did drink.”
His father chuckled and coughed into his hand. There was a newspaper on the table. He picked it up and flipped through the pages, squinting his eyes.
When Axel deemed the coffee ready he poured half of what was in the press in his father’s cup. He held it under his nose and closed his eyes as he whiffed at the heavenly aroma, but when he went to sample a sip the cup fell away in fragments leaving only the handle and base in his hands. He swore as he fetched paper towels and a broom and dustpan, his father laughing all the while.
“What’d you use hot glue? Stuff melts when ya heat it, ya know.”
Axel glared up at his father.
“I gotta teach you everything? Superglue, now that’ll do it.”
“I’ll get to it later.”
“Aw, I was just joshin’. Throw that thing out. It’s junk.”
He took another cup from the drying rack, filled it with the remaining coffee and handed it to his father.
“Enjoy.”
His father sipped and sat blinking.
“It’s alright.” He smirked at his son. “Could use a little somethin’. Say, hand me that bottle of Woodford above your head there—yeah, right there. Grab yourself a glass. C’mon now. Drink with your old man.”

They sat and drank and talked until Gunther dozed off resting his head on the kitchen table. Axel got him a pillow and gently lifted his head before slipping it under. In his stupor, a wave of determination seized him and for a long hour he sat hunched in his labor over the pieces of porcelain wielding a vile of superglue.
There was no sun and he realized he had forgotten to call Lillian. When he called there was no answer. He finished what was left in his glass, unwittingly set his father’s cup on the still red coil, and set out into the night for her motel.
He awoke in the fog of morning on a park bench. He had wandered through the night, alone. When he returned home there was no house. All that stood on his father’s meager acreage were the chicken coops and beyond them but a smoldering mound of ash. There were no birds in the sky. Axel looked at his hands and could hardly see for the cacophony of those in need of tending, of those without master.

Autistic Dark

00:18 reads the dash, and beyond the road winds on eternity. The abyss of these Nevadan hills hollow against the blue-black night. Phantoms of eons past crowd the sky, sprawled over their spinal zenith, their back to us. We are deaf to their light.
Time is written in your hands. Look at them. Rivers drawn by the folds of your labor, the litany of deeds strewn across calluses. The granite lodged in your palm, a gift of memory from your spastic 3rd grade peer, frustrated with cursive. Meteor scars where warts were singed from existence: the virus the plague that would not let up. Not until the year you absently slammed shut a car door on your thumb, and the nail never grew back quite right after that. And when was that? Where in these 18 allotted minutes does this incident lie, crystallized in some vaporous mass among the phantom light? 00:18 on the dash, and time does not budge.
The road winds on eternity, and the sun does not rise. Tomorrow, suspended in abstraction, golden and idyllic, as distant, as close, as death beyond the horizon. Render the scale and see how the mind reels, slipping its grip of its feeble reckoning. Earthbound insistence on linear progression reconsidered about other axes, or about nothing at all. Ease your hand along the invisible contours of entropy, endless vectors extending far beyond your reach. Far out to the nether regions where indifference reigns supreme, where ignorance of sentient trials governs that court of inanimate peace. Ease your hand over the steering wheel, hug close to the line dividing the road and know: it has been drawn for you by a fellow of your form, akin in your destined course. Smooth on through manmade caves still dripping nitroglycerin from what artificial supernovae conceived these black hole tunnels, our limbo, lit only by signs and the dividing line.
The road is aimless, yet it is our sole conduit to the other. Here lies the pavement of agreement: here lies language, logic. This, our venture for objective order, our encroachment on the timeless earth, is brittle, subject to weathering, and, despite our seasonal reinforcements, ultimately will be grown over at the end of this cosmic hour.
At 00:01 there is an explosion of light. And within the next few minutes the exposition of life: bacteria, fish, reptilian life-forms unto full-fledged mammals; and alas, it is 00:06, we awake with some unnamed vengeance against existence: quickly we usurp all monarchs of the animal kingdom in opposition to the cause, or lack thereof. The royal We, with blood on our hands, assumes the throne, which we long to maintain until the winter of our discontent, at the close of our hour. Judgment day like a Mayan eclipse: watch the shadow of Earth creak over night’s beacon like a sewer cap enclosing us in our own waste: the sum of our desires, reeking of sex and death and excrement, all a rosy tinge under the muted light of a blood moon.
Until then, we hunt, we gather; we unite in tribes and divide into factions; hierarchies are established and kingdoms arise; we devise economies, we wage war and oppress others for their otherness; all the while love and greed buzz in ever-wavering gridlock the hum of normalcy and catastrophe.
The intervals between minutes seem to dwindle as our tools and toys advance, and at 00:17, the invention of interchangeable parts. Factories are pieced together with steel and steam, humans are shackled to machines and routines, children are put to work. The flatulence of profit billows out smoke stacks as some get fat as others wither. The sky deflowered by our swanlike lust, choking against our ravages—yet see how pretty are her blemishes, how the hues of her bruises saturate deeper at the end of each passing day.
Over a distant hill a mock sun rises, harboring the mock gods, more merciless than those of heathens’, who erected this haven of eternal day whose contrived radiance penetrates the night sky. Here the balance between binaries is offset: here one does not define the other, but one is glorified and its opposite denied. Forever-lit casinos wherein oxygen is pumped through the lungs, and alcohol flows perpetually through the bloodstreams, of patrons loyal to their quest for the comfort of death: timelessness, every pull of the lever the same pull, each a new opportunity at the slots to win the jackpot. And what might that be, if this continual rebirth is not reward enough? Over the hill the mock sun rises, scintillating the prophesy of our premature demise.
You can see Jeremiah moping through the casinos, begging men not to bet their families’ budgets on black, paying off call girls so they do not defile themselves for this one evening, resisting a destiny already written, and all rebuke him. Perhaps an hour is too ambitious a ration to hope for. And how you would like to see them suffer, the immoral swine, from your high seat in the court of apathy when our doom is deemed by the gods, be they human or ethereal. Yet who is the more removed? Come down, return to time. All your purpose is relevant only in relation to our spans of suffering.
Smooth on through the city, sin with the sinners, humor the whores, offer libations to your self-imposed deity. See the weeping prophet sitting on a rock at the city’s limits lamenting all consumed in the pyre of their desires. See him, but move past him. Over a distant hill a purer fire burns, and over that hill death sits clad in the clothes of a new day.

Lazy Sunday

Guitar glinting in the sun
whimpering sporadically, softly
resonating with the wind.

The day is calm, and the dogs are not.
The elder bickers with the neighbor
as the pup labors at a bone
lapping out the marrow
gnawing his teeth strong
today with yesterday’s rot.

I relapse into bad habits—
tendons tighten in unstretched limbs
and I, hunched about my acidic
gut, stomach the week’s indulgence
and relish how my dying
has begun.

And the wind brushes through
the leaves, and the trees sway,
sway with the whimpering softly
glinting in the sun.

Big Pink Industrial Suburban Sunset

Linger a little longer—
let me gaze; how pretty, how shitty
how pretty you are. Rosily, laying lazily
your violets across the light of my days
and fading with my nights’ noir—
my medial, my remedial darling,
how pretty you are.

How viscerally tied am I to the lilt
of your rise and your demise, consistent
intrinsic peak, tugging me climactic—
you wear me out.

What synaptic failing, what deceit—
to think you slip into your pink
nightgown and out when the sun’s down
just for me. You cannot be owned,
I know, but when all debts are paid
and we’ve exhausted ourselves of rain
I see you clearly beyond your brine-
encrusted clouds; the sweat of other lovers
sticks to my skin, residual acidic lust
clings to my tongue, yet still
I wish you were mine.

Linger a little longer—
let my cigarette smoke entwine
with your wispy, floral scars—
how pretty, how shitty
how pretty you are.

Seasoned By Sufferings

Long before the acidic waters of the sound dissolved all that touched each shore there was a jetty that stretched long out to the heart of it. The rocks that composed the jetty were large and jagged, making for a difficult trek to the dilapidated gazebo at its end. Yet every morning before the sun pierced the sky with color, Marcel Blythe and his family would be perched diligently on the beams of wood jutting out from the gazebo awaiting their daily catch.
Marcel was not a man complete in his thirst for knowledge. What pleased him pleased him, and he saw no need to quest much further. When his wife Cora wisely mused that they lay a makeshift bridge of plywood across the haggard rocks Marcel quickly refused and insisted that their regular struggle would one day be rewarded greatly. And when that day did not come he asserted that their rewards, however, came every day, but they were subtle. “You have to attune your eyes to it,” he would tell his wife and children.
The Blythe home, nestled in a thicket not far off the shore, was a humble yurt that did not ask much of the earth. Within there was only a stove for cooking and but two small straw cots on which the Blythes would sleep. About the perimeter of the yurt Marcel had cleared some of the thicket to dig a pit for fires and waste, and off the east side of his home he built a lean-to in which he would prepare his family’s plentiful bounty of fish each night.
By Marcel’s guiding hand his family became quite efficient at their routinely rigmarole, yet despite their increasing proficiency in their ways of familial survival the pack found themselves wallowing in a mire of their insatiety, wanting something extracurricular to fill whatever crevice within them they felt empty. And although their emptiness was vague, each knew full well that whatever it was within them was indeed empty. Some men live the whole of their lives content with solely material necessities and niceties, never once catering to that inner ache for something more: for substance—but why?: for apathy, for lack of a capacity to call it by its name or for fear of discovering the depth of such intangible panging?
Damon and Ingrid were not like their father. Had their parents not stripped them from the city when they were very young they might have preferred the madness and momentum their guardians believed they were protecting them from. Marcel could not understand his children’s boredom, their restlessness. Only a foggy inkling of their brief, bustling former home remained in their quiet, callow minds, foggy like a dream; and although dim it shined poignant enough to hinder their actions in the life their father built for them: stiff and rigid, like the yurt he kept them in.
Damon, with his simple rock and twine, would lure and catch the fish—Winter Flounder and Striped Bass mostly—then Ingrid, with her veteran blood-clad stone, would pummel them before they flopped over the mossy edge and into the blue-green water lapping against the jetty. Every day it was like this. Even the way the water rose and fell never seemed to deter from its usual rhythm, except, of course, when the moon was near or when the sky was in a mood, or when hurricane struck.
Ingrid and her brother would not weather their first, and fortunately their only, hurricane until they were young adults. She, curved and rendered able of child, and he, with thin black hairs stippled above his lip, had never encountered a storm of such colossal scale, yet, being the pliant products of their father’s tutelage, they knew quickly and instinctively how to make ready the yurt for such a blow. But it would not be a hurricane that would be the Blythe’s, and the jetty’s, undoing—their demise would be directly tied to and divined by the undoing of the jetty. Damon boarded the windows on one side of the yurt while Ingrid scooped pales full of the intrusive water and dumped them out the windows on the other before her brother boarded those as well. The yurt was dark for the whole of the week the hurricane had endured, and did not see but a glimmer of light until the cyclone had run its course and depreciated over a stretch of land a safe many miles from the Blythes. The family subsisted on blackberries and wineberries, and on the great store of fish kept on ice in a cooler—both the ice and the cooler Marcel, after swallowing his pride, purchased at a grocery store in the nearest town. He did not like that he could not, despite his efforts and his passion, be a self-sufficient provider for his family in all extremes of weather but had to, on such occasions, rely on societal comforts; and so he was bitter for the week and lashed out on his children for the minutest movement or utterance. Ingrid huddled close to Damon when their father would throw his tantrums—they, clasped together like spoons in the harbor of each other’s arms, would lie very still so as not to ruffle the straw of their cot and stir their father’s temper. Yet Marcel never said an ill word to his wife—sure, he would repeatedly reject her often brilliant ideas, but his tone was always soft with her—and thus his children perceived a glaring rift between themselves and their parents. They huddled close, very close, sustaining something within them solely with the warmth of the other.

Cora would take helm of operations when Marcel could no longer walk. Her husband’s spine was shattered when, in the final torrents of the storm, a tree was felled upon the yurt. Shattered, too, was her hand, as it was cupped over the small of her husband’s back when the tree fell. Her daughter and son were unharmed.
To compensate for Marcel’s lack of ability, Cora assigned Damon, on top of his duty of catching the fish, the tasks of preparing them and, should the weather call for it, preserving them; and Ingrid, still maintaining her position of fish-pummeler, would now also run regular errands for her mother into town to purchase supplies, such as bait and tackle, and salt and ice for their stores. Unlike her husband, Cora was not ashamed to partake in the commerce of the town he so loathed. It was not so much the specific town that irked Marcel as it was the mechanical nature of townships in general. Had he had use of his legs for the remainder of his life, his family might have continued on in their close-knit unit and would not have prospered from the business Cora conducted so tactfully.
After the tempest had receded, unfathomable scores of varying bass and flounder were washed ashore. What Marcel saw as a curse his wife perceived as a blessing. No matter how vehemently he tried to illustrate the long-term effects the event would have on the ecosystem and, correlatively, their future, she was persistent in her endeavors to profit from the seemingly divine intervention. “We can’t just let it all rot,” was her rebuttal. “We can help ourselves by helping others.”
And in this way, Cora found solace from the palpable dearth permeating her vitality. In her service she had purpose. Although the sudden influx of visitors upset her invalid husband, she would not sacrifice her satisfaction for his. She had already tried living right in his eyes for too long, and she knew what desolation, what rejection, would lie in wait for her were she to relapse down that avenue. This was her path, she knew—and, as coarse as she felt for thinking so, no longer was there the threat of him physically hindering her project. So while he sat in his chair grimacing at passersby, customers who upset the gentle flow that was his life, Cora would be plotting sites for which to store their surplus as Damon and Ingrid dug as deep as she had told them to and about the perimeter she had drawn up. After each hole was dug, Damon and Ingrid would rest inside of it, decrying their mother’s restless command in warm whispers of indignation, until their master, wielding her ruling hand, her good hand, ordered them to dig yet another hole. By the time that all necessary plots were dug and littered about the augmented clearing surrounding their home, a hefty supply of fish had gone bad. But their total stock was so ostensibly innumerable that the loss hardly impinged on their income. As Marcel looked on in disgust, his son and daughter laid tiers of ice and fish, ice and fish, in the plots, which they then covered with white reflective tarps. What was once fertile earth was now, in his eyes, a static carnival of contrived purity—his yard constantly crowded with foolish patrons meandering blindly in the sun.
Rich were the Blythes in revenue but poor were they in their serenity. It was written clearly on the crestfallen mug on her husband’s face and in the weary trembling of her children’s knees. She felt the inadvertent byproducts of her venture weigh down upon her thick like the humid air before a storm. In order to atone for her heartless obliviousness she allotted only several days each week when clients could visit and bargain, and the remaining time was devoted purely to her family’s leisure. Yet, despite having had caught up on their rest, her family still appeared quite sickly. Even she herself, when she would look over her hands and arms, noticed a foreign paleness to her skin. She began to wonder what might be lurking in their waters, and soon enough, after attuning her taste buds to it, she could detect a suspect tang to their fish. Business proceedings were postponed until her inquiry of all activity along the sound was contented. But before she left the yurt to pursue her quest, Marcel, fed up with his usurper, said to her, “Give it up, you cunt.” The word, so alien to her husband’s diction, struck her as if he had smacked her clean across the face. Her impulse was to return the blow, but Marcel grabbed her hand before it could redden his cheek and crushed it in one firm clench of his fist.

The Blythes’ last attempt to fish at the jetty was desperate. Their trade went under after weeks of neglect and what was left of their food supply was depleted quickly or went to rot. Despite the many acid-gnawed patches of the jetty, the Blythes determinedly trudged their way across, the gazebo in their sights bobbing on the horizon with the jerk of their labored steps. Damon held his father over his shoulder as he maneuvered along the rocks and waded where there were gaps in the jetty. The cuffs of his pants frayed, and the hair on his legs singed, at the toxic bite of the water. Ahead of them Ingrid guided Cora by the shoulders so that, were she to trip, she would not be forced to catch her fall with her already irreparable hands. And in that visage—his sister, swollen with the stillborn product of their exclusivity, walking their mother through the heavy a-brewing damp to the fading horizon—Damon knew they would not return to the shore.
All were worn weary from their long-term ingestion of the befouled fish. Damon felt his legs shaking increasingly under him as he neared the gazebo and before he could reach it he collapsed. He lied prostrate on a cragged rock, wavelets purling gently over his motionless body; he could not get up. Clear and then muffled with the ebb and flow of the water passing over him, he heard his father’s abject wailing thinning in the distance, trailing off, bubbling, and then nothing.
The women cast their line into the sound and would begin anew.