Would you blot them
The screams of them
Would you silence the silenced
With-out mouths them
Bellies bloated from lack them
Without voices
You gut eaters
You pigs, vomit eating dogs
Smeared in blood and shit
Fuck you, suck lead
You have smeared them out
You the clean handed middle man
You do it, you did it
Erased them, the erased
The eyeless
You do it, you did it
Stich your eyes shut
Cut your tong out
Roll in ashes
You are a plague upon this good green earth
Keep talking with your bloody words
Your bloody books your
Bloody international your religion
So bloody built human sacrifice dripping with blood
Your governments so bloody your cops
So bloody your schools and libraries so bloody
Your television and lesisure and culture all bloody
Me too
Im bloody too and it make s me
Wild completely
I would fill men’s hearts with fire
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
poem
Do you think you can check out
Like at wal-mart
Turnoff and tune out
Like your big screen
Do you think you won’t hear
The screams of the
Guatemalan peasants
Of the murdered Cuban literacy workers
If you turn up your ipod
Do you think you can buy
Your way into nirvana so you can forget
The Afghan children who are daily burnt alive
The starving toiling masses who you squash with tanks
Every day every day every day every day every day every day
You can’t
Because they haunt your sleep
Your fiendish dreams are full of ghosts
Your trips to the mall are death marches
You can hear them in the spaces between breaths
You can see their twisted bloody bodies
Out the corner of your eye
Your stupid fashion cannot cover it
Your fancy perfume cannot mask the stench of their
Bloated corpses
And in the end
They will come in lock step
To claim what is theirs and there will be nothing left
For you.
Like at wal-mart
Turnoff and tune out
Like your big screen
Do you think you won’t hear
The screams of the
Guatemalan peasants
Of the murdered Cuban literacy workers
If you turn up your ipod
Do you think you can buy
Your way into nirvana so you can forget
The Afghan children who are daily burnt alive
The starving toiling masses who you squash with tanks
Every day every day every day every day every day every day
You can’t
Because they haunt your sleep
Your fiendish dreams are full of ghosts
Your trips to the mall are death marches
You can hear them in the spaces between breaths
You can see their twisted bloody bodies
Out the corner of your eye
Your stupid fashion cannot cover it
Your fancy perfume cannot mask the stench of their
Bloated corpses
And in the end
They will come in lock step
To claim what is theirs and there will be nothing left
For you.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Apokalypsis
Apokalypsis
At some point
The true will
Reveal its-self
Unwrap its self
Letting the shadows
dissolve
Being
Naked
All pretense
Burnt away
All lies
Burnt Away
All petty neurosis
burnt away
Gone
Little comings
and goings
The fabric of the ego
The small job,
The small hang-ups,
The small bickers
The memos and e-mails
The credit cards
The petty little car
Burnt
Leaving behind a world
backend by truth
At some point
The true will
Reveal its-self
Unwrap its self
Letting the shadows
dissolve
Being
Naked
All pretense
Burnt away
All lies
Burnt Away
All petty neurosis
burnt away
Gone
Little comings
and goings
The fabric of the ego
The small job,
The small hang-ups,
The small bickers
The memos and e-mails
The credit cards
The petty little car
Burnt
Leaving behind a world
backend by truth
what is any of this
What is any of this
What is any of this
Swirling parade of things
Light and sound and breath
And the puzzled look of sunflowers
Turning their face to you
What is any of this
Swirling parade of things
Light and sound and breath
And the puzzled look of sunflowers
Turning their face to you
poem for you
How this song makes me feel
Of course I am mad for you
The madness of long empty nights
The madness of cold sheets
The madness of need and hunger
The madness of attachment
The madness of the attached
Of course I have always been mad for you
I was born mad for you
I was flooded with madness at my first
Choking breath vomiting the fluid of
Your womb.
Blinking into being
out of your warm no-place
Of course I am mad for you
What else am I but longing
I am animated by it, I try to hide it
But it is obvious
Would you not love me
O! I need you like air
Of course I am mad for you
The madness of long empty nights
The madness of cold sheets
The madness of need and hunger
The madness of attachment
The madness of the attached
Of course I have always been mad for you
I was born mad for you
I was flooded with madness at my first
Choking breath vomiting the fluid of
Your womb.
Blinking into being
out of your warm no-place
Of course I am mad for you
What else am I but longing
I am animated by it, I try to hide it
But it is obvious
Would you not love me
O! I need you like air
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Old Story
What is truth?
Said the governor
A bowl stood by his hands
The man before him
Stood silently
Before the crowd and
their demands
Said the governor
A bowl stood by his hands
The man before him
Stood silently
Before the crowd and
their demands
Image
the image
the world is draped by blue satin
a great fire burns behind
we say "stars"
the gods pull the satin
constellations shift
we connect the dots
A Cyclops stares down angrily
with his spotlight eye
and we say "moon"
like children
the world is draped by blue satin
a great fire burns behind
we say "stars"
the gods pull the satin
constellations shift
we connect the dots
A Cyclops stares down angrily
with his spotlight eye
and we say "moon"
like children
Impression of San Francisco
Impression of San Francisco
At the end of continents
Cliffs falls into the sea
Gulls circled below
Where we stood
At the sidewalk's end
Houses crowded down hill
Grasping the street like little boys
In a tug-o-war with the tide
Someone painted Moa
On the building across from the hostel
He greeted us in the morning
a smiling Buddha rising in the east
Where are our tall mountains
That we might run into them
Hidden by the horizon I suppose
Don't ask me anything
Don't ask me anything
The busses smelt of piss
Dead men huddled in the back
We stepped over them
Someone told me that
Jesus would send blessings
For my five spot
And I thought of the mountains
Dreams too fade into the sea
Like broken sidewalks
Melting-melting-melting
Into piss and madness
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=17#ixzz14NfCHZL7
At the end of continents
Cliffs falls into the sea
Gulls circled below
Where we stood
At the sidewalk's end
Houses crowded down hill
Grasping the street like little boys
In a tug-o-war with the tide
Someone painted Moa
On the building across from the hostel
He greeted us in the morning
a smiling Buddha rising in the east
Where are our tall mountains
That we might run into them
Hidden by the horizon I suppose
Don't ask me anything
Don't ask me anything
The busses smelt of piss
Dead men huddled in the back
We stepped over them
Someone told me that
Jesus would send blessings
For my five spot
And I thought of the mountains
Dreams too fade into the sea
Like broken sidewalks
Melting-melting-melting
Into piss and madness
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=17#ixzz14NfCHZL7
A chihuahua in the hood
Variation on a theme
my little chihuahua
dose not know she is small
she divines herself a giant
she does not cower under the gaze of
mail-men, big dogs, strange looking folks hobbling about
old tom-cats,
barks with abandon at pit-bulls, trucks,
potential and actual ruffians or scoundrels
she walks like she owns the street
not a foot high, she towers over the corner
shows her teeth at dealers and junkies
my little chihuahua knows her true size
my little chihuahua
dose not know she is small
she divines herself a giant
she does not cower under the gaze of
mail-men, big dogs, strange looking folks hobbling about
old tom-cats,
barks with abandon at pit-bulls, trucks,
potential and actual ruffians or scoundrels
she walks like she owns the street
not a foot high, she towers over the corner
shows her teeth at dealers and junkies
my little chihuahua knows her true size
the moon drops first
Old Variation on a theme in S
Old Variation on a theme in S
Beaumont is far from Lesbos
Still I pine under pines
Watching Pleiades set
Cursing fate and time
Yes, the moon drops first
Artemis follows the sisters
Perhaps the hunt is hers
I chase only your rain
To quench this painful thirst
Yes, the night is long
I sweat in my cold bed
As night drags into the dawn
I send to heavenly bodies
My pain, my need, my song
Old Variation on a theme in S
Beaumont is far from Lesbos
Still I pine under pines
Watching Pleiades set
Cursing fate and time
Yes, the moon drops first
Artemis follows the sisters
Perhaps the hunt is hers
I chase only your rain
To quench this painful thirst
Yes, the night is long
I sweat in my cold bed
As night drags into the dawn
I send to heavenly bodies
My pain, my need, my song
variation on PN
The night plows into me
I steady myself for the onslaught
how harsh she is blowing past
long blue robes trailing behind
in her wake, night-jasmine
to mock me, an old man writing alone
with dry finger tips
I know
beneath her gown, alabaster smooth
what dignity is left
when the night conspires against one
with black hair adorned by diamonds
what chance do I have
I steady myself for the onslaught
how harsh she is blowing past
long blue robes trailing behind
in her wake, night-jasmine
to mock me, an old man writing alone
with dry finger tips
I know
beneath her gown, alabaster smooth
what dignity is left
when the night conspires against one
with black hair adorned by diamonds
what chance do I have
the street
The street 2
The street 2
The street knows not
He goes in knots
To and fro, to and fro
The street sits sly
Or slides silent by
Back and forth, back and forth
The street wraps the world
While poets rap their words
Round and round, round and round
On the street the street's on you
In and out the street wants to
Assume your bones, assume your guts
The street needs bold blood,
To turn to mash or mush to mud
Me and you me and you
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=9#ixzz14NcFWCEH
The street 2
The street knows not
He goes in knots
To and fro, to and fro
The street sits sly
Or slides silent by
Back and forth, back and forth
The street wraps the world
While poets rap their words
Round and round, round and round
On the street the street's on you
In and out the street wants to
Assume your bones, assume your guts
The street needs bold blood,
To turn to mash or mush to mud
Me and you me and you
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=9#ixzz14NcFWCEH
summer
summer collects in the gutters
gets tangled in fur of wild cats
drops on the backs of lady bugs slides
off her perfect spotted smoothness
she unhinges her wings
summer
is honey-suckle thick
an ovulation of magnolia
the earth is good
i'm looking for the transfer
gets tangled in fur of wild cats
drops on the backs of lady bugs slides
off her perfect spotted smoothness
she unhinges her wings
summer
is honey-suckle thick
an ovulation of magnolia
the earth is good
i'm looking for the transfer
step work
step work
we fathom down fathoms down
must we sink, yet never drown
to breath the thin watered air
and spy the gorgon that sleeps there
sleep it must in dark see caves
among past divers in murky graves
fearful hearts were frozen stone
who choked to death and sank alone
deeper still must mariners sink
demand air from water when on the brink
of death must rip the monster's flesh
to deliver himself, now born afresh
we fathom down fathoms down
must we sink, yet never drown
to breath the thin watered air
and spy the gorgon that sleeps there
sleep it must in dark see caves
among past divers in murky graves
fearful hearts were frozen stone
who choked to death and sank alone
deeper still must mariners sink
demand air from water when on the brink
of death must rip the monster's flesh
to deliver himself, now born afresh
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Postmodern Break Manifesto for Quantic
Postmodern Break Manifesto for Quantic
Comrade: This is a transmission sent via a break at 5 am. Dig? It is captured and via the groove committee. Comrade: Let us excavate ourselves from dusty crates to create funk mashups. The world as re-con-text. Comrade: if all is text then what truth is next? I can’t say. Speech is second rate, and writing simply difference. As you know it is wrapped in its own absence. But not breaks comrade. Breaks are all being. Breaks are all there, all here, all at once, all ways, mocking time, looped but perpetual. They unwind themselves in the cells, like strands of DNA, with bass kicks for proteins. They inhibit your dreams like naked angles. They infuse themselves into the air, so that you long for them like breath. Comrade: Are we not living through the last act? Is this not the last heaving joke of a dying world? Is this not the time of burn-out ? But breaks comrade! Breaks will never burn out. They will reanimate like frozen amoeba on comets after all this passes. They never go anyplace. They spin their theories around tribal fires and in binary blinks moving as code at the speed of light. They are as old as man, older. They were here at the beginning, god said let there be breaks, and there was great cosmic 16 bar grooves whirling out into infinity. They are still whirling, through all of us. Comrade: Thus you hear them. Thus you are moved.
Comrade: This is a transmission sent via a break at 5 am. Dig? It is captured and via the groove committee. Comrade: Let us excavate ourselves from dusty crates to create funk mashups. The world as re-con-text. Comrade: if all is text then what truth is next? I can’t say. Speech is second rate, and writing simply difference. As you know it is wrapped in its own absence. But not breaks comrade. Breaks are all being. Breaks are all there, all here, all at once, all ways, mocking time, looped but perpetual. They unwind themselves in the cells, like strands of DNA, with bass kicks for proteins. They inhibit your dreams like naked angles. They infuse themselves into the air, so that you long for them like breath. Comrade: Are we not living through the last act? Is this not the last heaving joke of a dying world? Is this not the time of burn-out ? But breaks comrade! Breaks will never burn out. They will reanimate like frozen amoeba on comets after all this passes. They never go anyplace. They spin their theories around tribal fires and in binary blinks moving as code at the speed of light. They are as old as man, older. They were here at the beginning, god said let there be breaks, and there was great cosmic 16 bar grooves whirling out into infinity. They are still whirling, through all of us. Comrade: Thus you hear them. Thus you are moved.
My America
Waffle house Mullets, ICP
Rent to own Hi-fi Disability
Checks for backyard moron’s ball
Get your truth from Rush Limbaugh
Jeff Foxworthy methamphetamine
Head-bang guitar adrenaline
Ann Coulter shoots bad ass guns
Mayonnaise sandwich honey buns
Kid rock fascists blow em all to hell
Buy a used Elvis at the yard sale
The sky turns black from diesel fumes
Christ smokes crack In flophouse rooms
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=4#ixzz147RKWsVy
Rent to own Hi-fi Disability
Checks for backyard moron’s ball
Get your truth from Rush Limbaugh
Jeff Foxworthy methamphetamine
Head-bang guitar adrenaline
Ann Coulter shoots bad ass guns
Mayonnaise sandwich honey buns
Kid rock fascists blow em all to hell
Buy a used Elvis at the yard sale
The sky turns black from diesel fumes
Christ smokes crack In flophouse rooms
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=4#ixzz147RKWsVy
sphinx
sphinx
Ask the winged goddess for a hint or sign
Perhaps she’ll let you see.
Through the darkened glass her mind
Whatever Forms might be.
Perhaps she’ll search her database
And cite the proper page,
Or she’ll lead you on a blind seers chase
To never play the sage
Ask the winged goddess for a hint or sign
Perhaps she’ll let you see.
Through the darkened glass her mind
Whatever Forms might be.
Perhaps she’ll search her database
And cite the proper page,
Or she’ll lead you on a blind seers chase
To never play the sage
Bonobo in Ameirca
Standing in the doorway of a junk shop, hair purple, evil cracked face sucking cigarette smoke, face contorts. Rotting America. Big bouncing Bonobo under a moo-moo, on the game show, new ultra light juice maker, just as justice is just ass, hey look. Yawl crazy, say, yes, yall my niggas. What did you expect of them? I feel as though you are headed for some terrible crash, where everyone turns gray and whittles away under the lights of ten-thousand television sets. What did you expect of them? Ha. Prometheus? Right. Kiddies got Daddies Adieus’ Addie ride single gear bikes, yawl no yawl my niggas, my dogs. Go sniffing back to their vomit, one laughs until hemorrhage, bloody sardonic sneer, teeth smeared, what did you expect? A seer? Sheer idealism. Blind Sardinian from Create. Certain Cretan bards. Yea right. Drinking out of cups.
Did you go hunting like Holden? Did you dawn a feathered cap. Did you see them piss on each other in bathtubs. On my face, on my face just not in my hair. Etc.., Did you go dreaming like Basquiat under the breaking surf of the dawn, waves of light blasting your hair, Spike Lee style, only to find a pawn shop on the corner and a chicken head. Go figure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PpxPqC
Did you go hunting like Holden? Did you dawn a feathered cap. Did you see them piss on each other in bathtubs. On my face, on my face just not in my hair. Etc.., Did you go dreaming like Basquiat under the breaking surf of the dawn, waves of light blasting your hair, Spike Lee style, only to find a pawn shop on the corner and a chicken head. Go figure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PpxPqC
Pathos
Pathos (Zealots Mix)
In Sardinia we laugh until hemorrhage
We claw our eyes out from the podium for public sport
The fat is torn from our bones by the Sphinx
We languish like lotus eaters dripping VD with temple whores
In Rome mothers bear the belly that bore them monsters
Asks a Praetorian to cut it open smiling
Our heads fall off like over-ripe poppies from the stem
Along the Via 100,000 slaves are crucified
From Crete to Rome stinking in the noon sun
Flies darken the horizon and the overwhelming perfume of dried blood
Sickens the soldiers who stand guard, poking them
To see if they still live
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PKsBIc
In Sardinia we laugh until hemorrhage
We claw our eyes out from the podium for public sport
The fat is torn from our bones by the Sphinx
We languish like lotus eaters dripping VD with temple whores
In Rome mothers bear the belly that bore them monsters
Asks a Praetorian to cut it open smiling
Our heads fall off like over-ripe poppies from the stem
Along the Via 100,000 slaves are crucified
From Crete to Rome stinking in the noon sun
Flies darken the horizon and the overwhelming perfume of dried blood
Sickens the soldiers who stand guard, poking them
To see if they still live
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PKsBIc
Some days are all black Beck sample
Some days are all black Beck samples
Mr Hipants loves Chopstick sushi. Thinks how fly he he get ta be. Lounge at the lounge dig bricolage found sound beats. Dorm food easy eats. We can do something. You’re a winner. You can do things. Interesting things. Get paid. Be a music god, movie god, famous at all the right parties, . Adventurer. International big time don. Sleep with the Tzar of Boraabrotia . I’m goanna be a pretty. Well adjusted. In love. Like on the commercials. Young girls in bikinis sun behind head, like halo, laughing laughing around a party fire circle. Dancing. Thin. All together. Hair like silk shine Now. Have friends. Facebook pictures doing mad interesting winner type things. Consume easy on big candy rock mountain. Things are gonna change. I’m a winner. I got young skin. I got nice hair. Proper thrift store orientation to consumption. Big 80’s style irony. I got beard sufficiently unkempt. I got I got culture capital comb-over cutoff Beck cynicism too. PICK ME! PICK ME! Standing alone like a giant dildo picking my fingernails. I want to get on the team. They picked the fat kid instead. PICK ME! The lobsters were boiled alive in their tanks. The solider had death-sex between ranks. Put your hands on the wheel. You’re a driver, you’re a winner, things are goanna change, I can feel it. My summer girl. Remember under the pier. Everything dies.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz147OP13dO
Mr Hipants loves Chopstick sushi. Thinks how fly he he get ta be. Lounge at the lounge dig bricolage found sound beats. Dorm food easy eats. We can do something. You’re a winner. You can do things. Interesting things. Get paid. Be a music god, movie god, famous at all the right parties, . Adventurer. International big time don. Sleep with the Tzar of Boraabrotia . I’m goanna be a pretty. Well adjusted. In love. Like on the commercials. Young girls in bikinis sun behind head, like halo, laughing laughing around a party fire circle. Dancing. Thin. All together. Hair like silk shine Now. Have friends. Facebook pictures doing mad interesting winner type things. Consume easy on big candy rock mountain. Things are gonna change. I’m a winner. I got young skin. I got nice hair. Proper thrift store orientation to consumption. Big 80’s style irony. I got beard sufficiently unkempt. I got I got culture capital comb-over cutoff Beck cynicism too. PICK ME! PICK ME! Standing alone like a giant dildo picking my fingernails. I want to get on the team. They picked the fat kid instead. PICK ME! The lobsters were boiled alive in their tanks. The solider had death-sex between ranks. Put your hands on the wheel. You’re a driver, you’re a winner, things are goanna change, I can feel it. My summer girl. Remember under the pier. Everything dies.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz147OP13dO
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Root Chakra
Root Chakra
Building building
Pushing up, pushing,
Just under the surface of the waters
Great surging currents, unaccountable,
Pressure and light and heat, energy like
Wires running through your skin,
Circuits, get it down, get it out
Catch it, put it down, get it while its hot,
Throbbing angry red popping out,
Bleeding like the sun in your chest,
Like the winds of the earth in your heart
Like the rain between your legs
Like the elemental movements
The trick is to master it
Channel it and focus it and blow it through your fingers or
Mouths, radiate it, vibrate it, the frequency of Orion and
The Pleiades, and Diana, all death and birth, move it through you
Clear it, clear it, to be
The reactor that you are
Building building
Pushing up, pushing,
Just under the surface of the waters
Great surging currents, unaccountable,
Pressure and light and heat, energy like
Wires running through your skin,
Circuits, get it down, get it out
Catch it, put it down, get it while its hot,
Throbbing angry red popping out,
Bleeding like the sun in your chest,
Like the winds of the earth in your heart
Like the rain between your legs
Like the elemental movements
The trick is to master it
Channel it and focus it and blow it through your fingers or
Mouths, radiate it, vibrate it, the frequency of Orion and
The Pleiades, and Diana, all death and birth, move it through you
Clear it, clear it, to be
The reactor that you are
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Lament of Big Bob
The Lament of Big Bill
Adam didn’t talk to Big Bill. He’d seen him around AA meetings, but he was always very quiet and didn’t seem much like the talking type. Big Bill spent 25- years in prison for murder. He was always a husky man, but prison had made him bigger. In prison there is not much more to do but workout and eat. So when Big Bill got out he was 250 pounds of hard muscle and stood about 6’7”. He was maybe 50, balding, very blond hair, so blond that his eye lids were blond. Bad pick tattoos scratched all over his arms and neck, some of them with racial overtones. His fore-arms were like tree trunks.
He never spoke in meetings. Adam was sitting directly in front of him and almost jumped when he piped up.
“My names Bill I’m alcoholic. Well some of you know my kids tried to hold up a bank a few days back, and now they are all in jail, ever’ one of em. So I guess I got nothing. My parents are dead. I didn’t even get to go to my mom’s funeral and she was the only one loved me. I’m livin’ in that van out there and I guess I should be happy to have someplace to sleep. They cut me loose and I just don’t know where to go. You all don’t know what I been through. I’m 50 years old and I been in prison since I was 25. I went in a young kid and now here I am an old man with nothing. Sometimes I wisht’ they woulda’ just given me the chair. I don’t like the man I am. I never knew how to live. No one ever showed me how to live. My old man used to beat on me since I could remember so I left at 15. A man does some things he knows ant right with when he’s starving. I did some bad things out there, and I guess I did some bad thing inside too. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like being full of hate. I don’t like being prejudice, I don’t like hating myself. I don’t like being Bill. What can I do? Sometime I just think I otta go stick someplace up. Worst thing is they kill me and that don’t seem so bad from were I’m sittin. Or they send me back down. I know how to live locked up, I don’t know how to live with you people. I can’t hardly look some of you in the eyes. And I wanta’ drink. Oh lord how I wanta’ drink, but when I do I’m libal to turn into a monster and I'm so tired of being that kinda man. That’s all I got.”
The crowd was completely silent. A very good looking black lady sat next to him and put her hand on his. When I turned around they were looking at each-other like they were seeing each other for the first time. It looked to Adam as though Bill would cry.
Adam didn’t talk to Big Bill. He’d seen him around AA meetings, but he was always very quiet and didn’t seem much like the talking type. Big Bill spent 25- years in prison for murder. He was always a husky man, but prison had made him bigger. In prison there is not much more to do but workout and eat. So when Big Bill got out he was 250 pounds of hard muscle and stood about 6’7”. He was maybe 50, balding, very blond hair, so blond that his eye lids were blond. Bad pick tattoos scratched all over his arms and neck, some of them with racial overtones. His fore-arms were like tree trunks.
He never spoke in meetings. Adam was sitting directly in front of him and almost jumped when he piped up.
“My names Bill I’m alcoholic. Well some of you know my kids tried to hold up a bank a few days back, and now they are all in jail, ever’ one of em. So I guess I got nothing. My parents are dead. I didn’t even get to go to my mom’s funeral and she was the only one loved me. I’m livin’ in that van out there and I guess I should be happy to have someplace to sleep. They cut me loose and I just don’t know where to go. You all don’t know what I been through. I’m 50 years old and I been in prison since I was 25. I went in a young kid and now here I am an old man with nothing. Sometimes I wisht’ they woulda’ just given me the chair. I don’t like the man I am. I never knew how to live. No one ever showed me how to live. My old man used to beat on me since I could remember so I left at 15. A man does some things he knows ant right with when he’s starving. I did some bad things out there, and I guess I did some bad thing inside too. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like being full of hate. I don’t like being prejudice, I don’t like hating myself. I don’t like being Bill. What can I do? Sometime I just think I otta go stick someplace up. Worst thing is they kill me and that don’t seem so bad from were I’m sittin. Or they send me back down. I know how to live locked up, I don’t know how to live with you people. I can’t hardly look some of you in the eyes. And I wanta’ drink. Oh lord how I wanta’ drink, but when I do I’m libal to turn into a monster and I'm so tired of being that kinda man. That’s all I got.”
The crowd was completely silent. A very good looking black lady sat next to him and put her hand on his. When I turned around they were looking at each-other like they were seeing each other for the first time. It looked to Adam as though Bill would cry.
Lament of Big Bob
The Lament of Big Bob
Adam didn’t talk to Big Bob. He’d seen him around AA meetings, but he was always very quiet and didn’t seem much like the talking type. Big Bill spent 25- years in prison for murder. He was always a husk man, but prison had made him bigger. In prison there is not much more to do but workout and eat. So when Big Bill got out he was 250 pounds of hard muscle and stood about 6’7”. He was maybe 50, balding, very blond hair, so blond that his eye lids were blond. Bad pick tattoos scratched all over his arms and neck, some of them with racial overtones. His fore-arms were like tree trunks.
He never spoke in meetings. Adam was sitting directly in front of him and almost jumped when he piped up.
“My names Bill I’m alcoholic. Well some of you know my kids tried to hold up a bank a few days back, and now they are all in jail, ever’ one of em. So I guess I got nothing. My parents are dead. I didn’t even get to go to my mom’s funeral and she was the only one loved me. I’m livin’ in that van out there and I guess I should be happy to have someplace to sleep. They cut me loose and I just don’t know where to go. You all don’t know what I been through. I’m 50 years old and I been in prison since I was 25. I went in a young kid and now here I am an old man with nothing. Sometimes I wisht’ they woulda’ just given me the chair. I don’t like the man I am. I never knew how to live. No one ever showed me how to live. My old man used to beat on me since I could remember so I left at 15. A man does some things he knows ant right with when he’s starving. I did some bad things out there, and I guess I did some bad thing inside too. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like being full of hate. I don’t like being prejudice, I don’t like hating myself. I don’t like being Bill. What can I do? Sometime I just think I otta go stick someplace up. Worst thing is they kill me and that don’t seem so bad from were I’m sittin. Or they send me back down. I know how to live locked up, I don’t know how to live with you people. I can’t hardly look some of you in the eys. And I wanta’ drink. Oh lord how I wanta’ drink, but when I do I’m libal to turn into a monster. That’s all I got.”
The crowd was completely silent. A very good looking black lady sat next to him and put her hand on his. When I turned around they were looking at each-other like they were seeing each other for the first time. It looked to Adam as though Bill would cry.
Adam didn’t talk to Big Bob. He’d seen him around AA meetings, but he was always very quiet and didn’t seem much like the talking type. Big Bill spent 25- years in prison for murder. He was always a husk man, but prison had made him bigger. In prison there is not much more to do but workout and eat. So when Big Bill got out he was 250 pounds of hard muscle and stood about 6’7”. He was maybe 50, balding, very blond hair, so blond that his eye lids were blond. Bad pick tattoos scratched all over his arms and neck, some of them with racial overtones. His fore-arms were like tree trunks.
He never spoke in meetings. Adam was sitting directly in front of him and almost jumped when he piped up.
“My names Bill I’m alcoholic. Well some of you know my kids tried to hold up a bank a few days back, and now they are all in jail, ever’ one of em. So I guess I got nothing. My parents are dead. I didn’t even get to go to my mom’s funeral and she was the only one loved me. I’m livin’ in that van out there and I guess I should be happy to have someplace to sleep. They cut me loose and I just don’t know where to go. You all don’t know what I been through. I’m 50 years old and I been in prison since I was 25. I went in a young kid and now here I am an old man with nothing. Sometimes I wisht’ they woulda’ just given me the chair. I don’t like the man I am. I never knew how to live. No one ever showed me how to live. My old man used to beat on me since I could remember so I left at 15. A man does some things he knows ant right with when he’s starving. I did some bad things out there, and I guess I did some bad thing inside too. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like being full of hate. I don’t like being prejudice, I don’t like hating myself. I don’t like being Bill. What can I do? Sometime I just think I otta go stick someplace up. Worst thing is they kill me and that don’t seem so bad from were I’m sittin. Or they send me back down. I know how to live locked up, I don’t know how to live with you people. I can’t hardly look some of you in the eys. And I wanta’ drink. Oh lord how I wanta’ drink, but when I do I’m libal to turn into a monster. That’s all I got.”
The crowd was completely silent. A very good looking black lady sat next to him and put her hand on his. When I turned around they were looking at each-other like they were seeing each other for the first time. It looked to Adam as though Bill would cry.
Your eyes (variation 3 from Mexico)
Your eyes (variation 3 from Mexico)
Your black eyes are obsidian knives
Wet on the heart
You cut from me
Still beating you held it
As it ticked
Down to
Death
What was I to do
But lay prostrate
Bleeding on your stone
Alter
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz12ohKw9g8
Your black eyes are obsidian knives
Wet on the heart
You cut from me
Still beating you held it
As it ticked
Down to
Death
What was I to do
But lay prostrate
Bleeding on your stone
Alter
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz12ohKw9g8
Zero sum
What breath sustains our sails
What faith when the world fails
What God to call upon
If not Zuse, the Titan’s son
What air fills our lungs
If not cheap booze and drugs
What dreams pray might hear
Where a mystic sage or seer
To speak it unto you
A text to cling onto
What faith when the world fails
What God to call upon
If not Zuse, the Titan’s son
What air fills our lungs
If not cheap booze and drugs
What dreams pray might hear
Where a mystic sage or seer
To speak it unto you
A text to cling onto
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Working
Working 2.
Guys called it “Catching Out”. It meant that you were going to work that day. At Labor Ready you might work and you might not. You showed up around 5am and sat around till someone came in needing a hand. Or the Labor Ready clerk would get a call, or an “order” for help and she would send a few guys out to the job. Day labor jobs are almost always about the worst possible jobs you could get. If you catch out from Labor Ready you almost never get paid more than whatever the minimum wage is at the time. It usually involved something dirty and dangerous.
About the worst job I ever had was throwing trash on the back of a trash truck. It was probably the most physically exhausting thing I have ever done. Hopping on and off the truck, hooking the garbage cans to the mechanism that dumped them in the truck, picking up trash bags and slinging the into the truck, it was all heavy and nasty. On quite a few occasions the bag would break, or come untied, and the shit would get on me. Going to the dump was another horror. You can’t stop smelling it after you leave. The stench sticks to your skin and cloths. It gets into the back of your nose.
But going to the landfill in the back of a trash truck to dump a load is not half as bad as working in it. Another terrible job I picked up once was pulling all the shit out of a large goose neck trailer for a guy at the dump. It was full of old garbage, cloths, furniture, and various house wares he’d got out of a dilapidated rent house of his. He paid me 7 dollars an hour. He rented the house for 600 a month and it was falling apart. It took about three hours. I had a handkerchief tied over my mouth and nose but it did little good. It kept falling off and the guy would get pissed if I stopped too long to adjust it. Finally I just took it off. The particulate in the air at a dump is so thick that you can taste it. It gets all in your hair, sticks to the sweat on your body, in your throat, everywhere. You can’t imagine the stench. You have to go there to know what it’s like. Just like hard labor, you have to do it to know what it is. After the job the guy had the big heart to take me to McDonallds and pay for my meal. I couldn’t taste the burger, all I could taste was the terrible rot of the dump. I kept blowing my nose at the table and my snot was black. He kept telling me about his kids and how fucked up they were, he told me they were afraid of hard work. Young buck like myself had a good future ahead of me if I just worked hard.
Guys a Labor Ready were half-way crazy bout’ half the time. Often they would come around in various states of inebriation. If the boss caught wind of them he would run them off. Even at 5am dudes would sneak a pint into the place and take a pull here and there to keep em’ going. Boss man saw he’d bitch loudly and black list you. Early in the morning no on talked much, but after the rot gut coffee (a quarter a cup)or enough pulls from the bottle they get to talkin. One dudes name was Bible. I saw him smash a guy with a thick plastic coffee cup once. The guy was sitting down in the day room with his back turned, and Bible ran up and clocked him on the side of the head. The dude just fell of his stool. The guy I was eating with didn’t even look up. We were sitting next to him. I looked up at him and he said “leave it alone Crash, but mind how some of these dudes act, stay clear of them”.
Bible saw me and started to strut up. He had a blue tooth in his ear and was talking loudly, like he was planning something. The first thing he said to me was “wig splitter”. I don’t know why he said that. I guess he was trying to bring to mind what he did to that guy he smashed with the coffee cup. He sat down next to me and started talking loudly, like he knew me, like we were old palls.
“Crash, shit, look here, I got this lick, bouta come up. Shit, Fuck this here shit. Come outside,, say you gotta square?
We walked outside and I bummed him a cigarette.
“Look here, my bitch holdin an ounze of that kill for me, she say she gonna meet me up at Peterbuilt. You know them dudes all smoke, you somke huh? Yea, well, whatever, listen, ill give you a little to see if we get on the same ticket. Tell ol’ girl at the desk to send you out with me. Shit we gonna get paid on this shit…."
At Peterbuilt most the full time guys was white, redneck types. You could tell they had worked in production or construction or something of the like. Guys who do a lot of manual labor, esp. guys with full time jobs like that carry themselves a certain way. Most or all of the temp guys from labor ready was Mexican or black. And then me. Bible kept hanging around me talking non-stop some garbage. Showing out, strutting around, acting cool.
“Man I told that trick like my boy Jay-Z I got 99 problems but a bitch ant one, comin at me like that, say, you gotta notha square, yea, that an’t my muthafuckin kid, fuck that bitch, the little nigger ant mine, that little nigga ant getting my money, fuck that….say, look that white dude, go up to that dude and akst him he wanna by some kill”
I kept trying to shake him but he wouldn’t let me be. I think he just wanted to show off for me, I don’t know, like he was someplace else, like we was something else, like he had something, anything that mattered in his life. You ever been in someplace where you had to talk to someone you thought was either completely ignorant or disgusting or both, and you couldn’t get away? I guess youd have to be there to know. So said I would talk to the white guy and I walked up him. I talked low so Bible wouldn’t hear.
“Hey, where’s the boss? I’m almost finished with my job, I want to ask what he wants me to do next?”
He looked up from the machine he was running and spit “He’s round yonder” and pointed. I started to walk off.
I walked up to the bosses office he was sitting at his desk. He had a lot of what looked to be blue prints on his desk. He saw me coming and looked at me straight in the eye. He was smoking. I asked “Me adn Bible are finished, what you got for us next?” I smiled.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and put his arms behind his head, in a gesture of supreme relaxation. He yawned.
“Well, you working with Bible?" He looked at me for a few seconds and remained silent,"You looking for a job or you wanna be like them and work at the Temp agency so you an’t gotta work all the time. You know most of them don’t want to work”. His voice got low. “There as lazy as the day is long, and you tell Bible to pull up his Godamn pants, we don’t go for that n….” he stopped him-self , “that bull shit round’ here” He winked. “Whats your name boy?”
“Adam Duhhoon”
He looked up at the celling thoughtfully, "Duhhoon huh, Duhhoon, you kin to Fabian?"
"Yea that’s my uncle."
He smiled and slapped his desk, "No shit"!
"Yep."
"Yea. I guess you kinnda favor him a little."
"Iv been told."
"Your Granpaw is Leo then?"
"Yep."
"Well, now, he owns Exxel don’t he?"
"Yea."
"Self-made man Leo, just like my-self, didn’t nobody give us nothin, why arnt you workin for him?"
"I might start next week, I just got into town and he’s been out of town." I lied, I hated the bastard.
"Well, If you don’t talk to him call me, here’s my card, I know you arnt afraid of working hard. I worked with your grandpaw, we worked 13 hours a day at the ship yard, weldin, hes a good man, worked hard, drank hard too, just like Fabin"
"Yea he’s nuts", I hated him too,
"I know, Fabian is prone to get wild, but he’s a hard worker too, is he still working at EXXEL?"
"Yea."
"Tell him to call me next time you see him."
"OK"
"Listen, you and that Bible guy just sweep up, look busy. Tell your Grandpaw and Fabian you talked with me, Names Bill by the way, he shook my hand. "You don’t mind working 5 12’s do ya? We pay overtime after 40 but ya gotta keep up, production gets a little hectic round’ here, but you seem like a good boy who don't mind working hard"
"OK, yea, I don’t mind." I lied, I wanted to work when I wanted, when it came to hard labor. Part-time suited me fine. I was living with my parents and at that time in my life i didn't care.
I walked out and wen’t back to Bible.
"you talk to em?"
"Yea."
"What he say?"
"He told me to go ask some other dude, so I did, he didn’t want none either."
"Shit."
"Oh well."
"Shit, I gotta come up some how, shit maybe they hiring?"
"They might be, but don’t talk to the boss, come back and talk to HR, dress nice too, you might want to buy a belt"
"Shit I’d work in this bitch, full time, time anda half, it don’t even matter,THat time and a half, shit id work whatever, anyway, I told that bitch…"
Guys called it “Catching Out”. It meant that you were going to work that day. At Labor Ready you might work and you might not. You showed up around 5am and sat around till someone came in needing a hand. Or the Labor Ready clerk would get a call, or an “order” for help and she would send a few guys out to the job. Day labor jobs are almost always about the worst possible jobs you could get. If you catch out from Labor Ready you almost never get paid more than whatever the minimum wage is at the time. It usually involved something dirty and dangerous.
About the worst job I ever had was throwing trash on the back of a trash truck. It was probably the most physically exhausting thing I have ever done. Hopping on and off the truck, hooking the garbage cans to the mechanism that dumped them in the truck, picking up trash bags and slinging the into the truck, it was all heavy and nasty. On quite a few occasions the bag would break, or come untied, and the shit would get on me. Going to the dump was another horror. You can’t stop smelling it after you leave. The stench sticks to your skin and cloths. It gets into the back of your nose.
But going to the landfill in the back of a trash truck to dump a load is not half as bad as working in it. Another terrible job I picked up once was pulling all the shit out of a large goose neck trailer for a guy at the dump. It was full of old garbage, cloths, furniture, and various house wares he’d got out of a dilapidated rent house of his. He paid me 7 dollars an hour. He rented the house for 600 a month and it was falling apart. It took about three hours. I had a handkerchief tied over my mouth and nose but it did little good. It kept falling off and the guy would get pissed if I stopped too long to adjust it. Finally I just took it off. The particulate in the air at a dump is so thick that you can taste it. It gets all in your hair, sticks to the sweat on your body, in your throat, everywhere. You can’t imagine the stench. You have to go there to know what it’s like. Just like hard labor, you have to do it to know what it is. After the job the guy had the big heart to take me to McDonallds and pay for my meal. I couldn’t taste the burger, all I could taste was the terrible rot of the dump. I kept blowing my nose at the table and my snot was black. He kept telling me about his kids and how fucked up they were, he told me they were afraid of hard work. Young buck like myself had a good future ahead of me if I just worked hard.
Guys a Labor Ready were half-way crazy bout’ half the time. Often they would come around in various states of inebriation. If the boss caught wind of them he would run them off. Even at 5am dudes would sneak a pint into the place and take a pull here and there to keep em’ going. Boss man saw he’d bitch loudly and black list you. Early in the morning no on talked much, but after the rot gut coffee (a quarter a cup)or enough pulls from the bottle they get to talkin. One dudes name was Bible. I saw him smash a guy with a thick plastic coffee cup once. The guy was sitting down in the day room with his back turned, and Bible ran up and clocked him on the side of the head. The dude just fell of his stool. The guy I was eating with didn’t even look up. We were sitting next to him. I looked up at him and he said “leave it alone Crash, but mind how some of these dudes act, stay clear of them”.
Bible saw me and started to strut up. He had a blue tooth in his ear and was talking loudly, like he was planning something. The first thing he said to me was “wig splitter”. I don’t know why he said that. I guess he was trying to bring to mind what he did to that guy he smashed with the coffee cup. He sat down next to me and started talking loudly, like he knew me, like we were old palls.
“Crash, shit, look here, I got this lick, bouta come up. Shit, Fuck this here shit. Come outside,, say you gotta square?
We walked outside and I bummed him a cigarette.
“Look here, my bitch holdin an ounze of that kill for me, she say she gonna meet me up at Peterbuilt. You know them dudes all smoke, you somke huh? Yea, well, whatever, listen, ill give you a little to see if we get on the same ticket. Tell ol’ girl at the desk to send you out with me. Shit we gonna get paid on this shit…."
At Peterbuilt most the full time guys was white, redneck types. You could tell they had worked in production or construction or something of the like. Guys who do a lot of manual labor, esp. guys with full time jobs like that carry themselves a certain way. Most or all of the temp guys from labor ready was Mexican or black. And then me. Bible kept hanging around me talking non-stop some garbage. Showing out, strutting around, acting cool.
“Man I told that trick like my boy Jay-Z I got 99 problems but a bitch ant one, comin at me like that, say, you gotta notha square, yea, that an’t my muthafuckin kid, fuck that bitch, the little nigger ant mine, that little nigga ant getting my money, fuck that….say, look that white dude, go up to that dude and akst him he wanna by some kill”
I kept trying to shake him but he wouldn’t let me be. I think he just wanted to show off for me, I don’t know, like he was someplace else, like we was something else, like he had something, anything that mattered in his life. You ever been in someplace where you had to talk to someone you thought was either completely ignorant or disgusting or both, and you couldn’t get away? I guess youd have to be there to know. So said I would talk to the white guy and I walked up him. I talked low so Bible wouldn’t hear.
“Hey, where’s the boss? I’m almost finished with my job, I want to ask what he wants me to do next?”
He looked up from the machine he was running and spit “He’s round yonder” and pointed. I started to walk off.
I walked up to the bosses office he was sitting at his desk. He had a lot of what looked to be blue prints on his desk. He saw me coming and looked at me straight in the eye. He was smoking. I asked “Me adn Bible are finished, what you got for us next?” I smiled.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and put his arms behind his head, in a gesture of supreme relaxation. He yawned.
“Well, you working with Bible?" He looked at me for a few seconds and remained silent,"You looking for a job or you wanna be like them and work at the Temp agency so you an’t gotta work all the time. You know most of them don’t want to work”. His voice got low. “There as lazy as the day is long, and you tell Bible to pull up his Godamn pants, we don’t go for that n….” he stopped him-self , “that bull shit round’ here” He winked. “Whats your name boy?”
“Adam Duhhoon”
He looked up at the celling thoughtfully, "Duhhoon huh, Duhhoon, you kin to Fabian?"
"Yea that’s my uncle."
He smiled and slapped his desk, "No shit"!
"Yep."
"Yea. I guess you kinnda favor him a little."
"Iv been told."
"Your Granpaw is Leo then?"
"Yep."
"Well, now, he owns Exxel don’t he?"
"Yea."
"Self-made man Leo, just like my-self, didn’t nobody give us nothin, why arnt you workin for him?"
"I might start next week, I just got into town and he’s been out of town." I lied, I hated the bastard.
"Well, If you don’t talk to him call me, here’s my card, I know you arnt afraid of working hard. I worked with your grandpaw, we worked 13 hours a day at the ship yard, weldin, hes a good man, worked hard, drank hard too, just like Fabin"
"Yea he’s nuts", I hated him too,
"I know, Fabian is prone to get wild, but he’s a hard worker too, is he still working at EXXEL?"
"Yea."
"Tell him to call me next time you see him."
"OK"
"Listen, you and that Bible guy just sweep up, look busy. Tell your Grandpaw and Fabian you talked with me, Names Bill by the way, he shook my hand. "You don’t mind working 5 12’s do ya? We pay overtime after 40 but ya gotta keep up, production gets a little hectic round’ here, but you seem like a good boy who don't mind working hard"
"OK, yea, I don’t mind." I lied, I wanted to work when I wanted, when it came to hard labor. Part-time suited me fine. I was living with my parents and at that time in my life i didn't care.
I walked out and wen’t back to Bible.
"you talk to em?"
"Yea."
"What he say?"
"He told me to go ask some other dude, so I did, he didn’t want none either."
"Shit."
"Oh well."
"Shit, I gotta come up some how, shit maybe they hiring?"
"They might be, but don’t talk to the boss, come back and talk to HR, dress nice too, you might want to buy a belt"
"Shit I’d work in this bitch, full time, time anda half, it don’t even matter,THat time and a half, shit id work whatever, anyway, I told that bitch…"
Thursday, October 14, 2010
pentameter
pentameter
Odysseus was silent stringing his bow
Penelope had seen her hero's scar
The time had come to lay the base dogs low
This was the task for which he came so far
When proud Eumaeus raised his stolen cup
To drink stolen wine, it was less than sweet
The last thing the doomed man saw
Was wine and blood mixed at his feet
Odysseus was silent stringing his bow
Penelope had seen her hero's scar
The time had come to lay the base dogs low
This was the task for which he came so far
When proud Eumaeus raised his stolen cup
To drink stolen wine, it was less than sweet
The last thing the doomed man saw
Was wine and blood mixed at his feet
Working
In Sour Lake, Texas the mosquitoes are a halo around your head, they attack you as soon as you stop moving, all at once, like a trained squadron. When you slap them dead the little bodies stick to the sweat, and smear when you try to wipe them away. After a while you are wearing a vest of dirt, mesquite guts, and the mixed blood of who knows what.
I had been working with Chris for about two months at that point. Chris was from a tiny town on the Louisiana Texas, border named Vidor, near where we were working. He had smoked crack for 10 years but was recently sober when I got to working with him. I never saw Chris wear anything but Dickies overalls, a t-shirt, and boots. He was a huge man, 7’ 3”, with a big bull neck, broad shoulders, big thighs, and a gut. He smoked constantly and had an odd habit of licking his finger tips before he took a drag. Chris owned all his tools, his truck, and paid me a decent wage considering I was completely inept at everything other than painting. He lived in a small house and was pretty poor but he was proud that he owned his own business.
Once he started talking about God you could hardly shut him up, or never get a word in edge wise, assuming you had something to say about such a thing. He would make up various rituals during the work day sometimes, and ask me to do them with him. An example of this was he took to burning cedar blocks in a small fire in the yard of the cabin we were working on, and he wanted me to throw some in the fire with him. He said it chased off whatever evil spirits happened to be hanging around. He would mumble prayers as he worked. He had also taken to researching what he considered to be natural medicine. He thought that people needed to get off prescription meds to be truly healthy. I don’t know that smoking entered his thinking on this point. When he wasn’t talking about God he was talking about the natural healing properties of fruits, vegetables, herbs, and whatever else he took a hankering after.
Oscar ran a half-way house in Beaumont, Texas and had learned carpentry in Angola where he did ten years for holding up a mortuary. He shot a man during the holdup but the man didn’t die. He was a drug addict, street pimp, and two-bit con-man most of his life, but found religion in jail, got out on parole after 15 years, sobered up on the outside and started a half-way house. He basically built the house single handedly, and a lot of people in Beaumont had come through, got out, and stayed sober. He was well known in Beaumont by people who worked in the “recovery” and “rehabilitation” fields. He met Chris at an AA meeting. He had agreed to help Chris with some carpentry that the job needed.
Chris seemed impervious to the mosquitoes, they bit him steady, especially on the nose, neck, head, ears and eye-balls. He smoked madly and talked as they tried to fly into his mouth. We were on top of a 13 foot high scaffold trying to plumb a fascia board with the soffit underneath. He couldn’t get the cuts to fit together properly and was trying to man-handle them so that they would be flush. He was throwing his entire 250 pounds into the board, trying to get it to stay in place while I hit it with a nail gun, bending it as we went. He was shaking the entire scaffolding with the violence of his battle against the fascia. The scaffold was rattling and squeaking. It seemed to me that it would pop apart at any moment. He just kept talking and talking…like we were standing on the ground and were not in imminent danger of falling and being hurt.
"No, what I'm sayin' is that tomato seeds have med-I-ci-ni-al uses. The Indians new that. So I'm researchin' tomatoes see. Look, if you get cancer the thing to do is eat them tomatoes and the seeds will have a healing effect on the body system". Chris just continued smoking, ciggerett bobbing from his lips fling ashes, fighting with the beam. The mosquitoes darted around his head and whipped through the thin line of smoke.
Oscar just sat below looking up at me and Chris on the scaffold. He was regarding the battle with some skepticism. He never did any work, just told us what to do. He was the one that made the cut that was not the right angle. We were out of wood and we were trying to make that one work so we didn’t have to buy any more. Owens fucked up but nobody would say so because he was 70 years old and was working for free anyhow.
Oscar yelled up from his safe position on the ground "Adam, get closer to Chris, when he pushes it in you got to hit it with a nail quick, don’t let it spring back up. What size nails you got anyway, them little ol shitty ass things you got in that gun might not do the trick. You might need some masonry nails.”
Chris just keeps talking, seeming not to hear Owens "..so the point is to plant tomatoes in the yards, and then you get the seeds of you want to make a real strong dose, but you have to get the oil from the seeds by God, that’s where the Vitamin K2 is at , then you could cure cancer with some real high doses of tomato seed oil. The doctors know this but they’s out to make money that’s all, you can’t trust them nowadays. " He never misses a word, now more loudly so that Owens can hear better; "see its the oil in them seeds, the oil is concentrated in them seed…"
Owens stands up out of his chair in an exasperated manner, looking up, and squints, holding his hand in the shadow of the sun and interrupts Chris' discourse. "ADAM!!!! You hold that board like a little ol' girl, you gonna' make my old ass climb up there and do it for ya, put some ASS INTO IT BOAH'"
By this time Chris was getting excited and near screaming so Owens could hear him. I winced at the sound of his country logic. He has worked himself into a near frenzy over the miraculous healing powers of tomato seeds. But I can’t get the nail to stick. Chris puts the board into place and I Shoot a nail into it but the nail is not long enough to fasten the board flush. We pause a second and Owns ties a package of longer nails to a rope, throws the rope up and I haul it to us. But of course they don’t fit right in the gun.
“You gonna have to do it the old fashioned way, all ass holes and elbows. Don’t be afraid of some hard work, it’s good for you, hell that’s what made this country so damn grate, hard work. It’s all ass holes and elbows from here boy, you gonna get it, you gonna remember me one day and remember all the stuff I tell you. You gonna remember all right. Don’t never be afraid of some hard work. I’m not, that’s why I an’t gotta answer to nobody. Anybody can own their own business. You always talkin about wage slavery, well, you should start a business. “
The mosquitoes have planed their attack and Chris' sweat starts to drip onto me. I started praying despite myself, "OH shit get the board in place god please let the board!!!" The scaffold shakes wildly as Chris tries to wrestle it in place. It seems to me that it is seconds away from collapse. Owens sat back down assured that neather men are carpenters.
I had been working with Chris for about two months at that point. Chris was from a tiny town on the Louisiana Texas, border named Vidor, near where we were working. He had smoked crack for 10 years but was recently sober when I got to working with him. I never saw Chris wear anything but Dickies overalls, a t-shirt, and boots. He was a huge man, 7’ 3”, with a big bull neck, broad shoulders, big thighs, and a gut. He smoked constantly and had an odd habit of licking his finger tips before he took a drag. Chris owned all his tools, his truck, and paid me a decent wage considering I was completely inept at everything other than painting. He lived in a small house and was pretty poor but he was proud that he owned his own business.
Once he started talking about God you could hardly shut him up, or never get a word in edge wise, assuming you had something to say about such a thing. He would make up various rituals during the work day sometimes, and ask me to do them with him. An example of this was he took to burning cedar blocks in a small fire in the yard of the cabin we were working on, and he wanted me to throw some in the fire with him. He said it chased off whatever evil spirits happened to be hanging around. He would mumble prayers as he worked. He had also taken to researching what he considered to be natural medicine. He thought that people needed to get off prescription meds to be truly healthy. I don’t know that smoking entered his thinking on this point. When he wasn’t talking about God he was talking about the natural healing properties of fruits, vegetables, herbs, and whatever else he took a hankering after.
Oscar ran a half-way house in Beaumont, Texas and had learned carpentry in Angola where he did ten years for holding up a mortuary. He shot a man during the holdup but the man didn’t die. He was a drug addict, street pimp, and two-bit con-man most of his life, but found religion in jail, got out on parole after 15 years, sobered up on the outside and started a half-way house. He basically built the house single handedly, and a lot of people in Beaumont had come through, got out, and stayed sober. He was well known in Beaumont by people who worked in the “recovery” and “rehabilitation” fields. He met Chris at an AA meeting. He had agreed to help Chris with some carpentry that the job needed.
Chris seemed impervious to the mosquitoes, they bit him steady, especially on the nose, neck, head, ears and eye-balls. He smoked madly and talked as they tried to fly into his mouth. We were on top of a 13 foot high scaffold trying to plumb a fascia board with the soffit underneath. He couldn’t get the cuts to fit together properly and was trying to man-handle them so that they would be flush. He was throwing his entire 250 pounds into the board, trying to get it to stay in place while I hit it with a nail gun, bending it as we went. He was shaking the entire scaffolding with the violence of his battle against the fascia. The scaffold was rattling and squeaking. It seemed to me that it would pop apart at any moment. He just kept talking and talking…like we were standing on the ground and were not in imminent danger of falling and being hurt.
"No, what I'm sayin' is that tomato seeds have med-I-ci-ni-al uses. The Indians new that. So I'm researchin' tomatoes see. Look, if you get cancer the thing to do is eat them tomatoes and the seeds will have a healing effect on the body system". Chris just continued smoking, ciggerett bobbing from his lips fling ashes, fighting with the beam. The mosquitoes darted around his head and whipped through the thin line of smoke.
Oscar just sat below looking up at me and Chris on the scaffold. He was regarding the battle with some skepticism. He never did any work, just told us what to do. He was the one that made the cut that was not the right angle. We were out of wood and we were trying to make that one work so we didn’t have to buy any more. Owens fucked up but nobody would say so because he was 70 years old and was working for free anyhow.
Oscar yelled up from his safe position on the ground "Adam, get closer to Chris, when he pushes it in you got to hit it with a nail quick, don’t let it spring back up. What size nails you got anyway, them little ol shitty ass things you got in that gun might not do the trick. You might need some masonry nails.”
Chris just keeps talking, seeming not to hear Owens "..so the point is to plant tomatoes in the yards, and then you get the seeds of you want to make a real strong dose, but you have to get the oil from the seeds by God, that’s where the Vitamin K2 is at , then you could cure cancer with some real high doses of tomato seed oil. The doctors know this but they’s out to make money that’s all, you can’t trust them nowadays. " He never misses a word, now more loudly so that Owens can hear better; "see its the oil in them seeds, the oil is concentrated in them seed…"
Owens stands up out of his chair in an exasperated manner, looking up, and squints, holding his hand in the shadow of the sun and interrupts Chris' discourse. "ADAM!!!! You hold that board like a little ol' girl, you gonna' make my old ass climb up there and do it for ya, put some ASS INTO IT BOAH'"
By this time Chris was getting excited and near screaming so Owens could hear him. I winced at the sound of his country logic. He has worked himself into a near frenzy over the miraculous healing powers of tomato seeds. But I can’t get the nail to stick. Chris puts the board into place and I Shoot a nail into it but the nail is not long enough to fasten the board flush. We pause a second and Owns ties a package of longer nails to a rope, throws the rope up and I haul it to us. But of course they don’t fit right in the gun.
“You gonna have to do it the old fashioned way, all ass holes and elbows. Don’t be afraid of some hard work, it’s good for you, hell that’s what made this country so damn grate, hard work. It’s all ass holes and elbows from here boy, you gonna get it, you gonna remember me one day and remember all the stuff I tell you. You gonna remember all right. Don’t never be afraid of some hard work. I’m not, that’s why I an’t gotta answer to nobody. Anybody can own their own business. You always talkin about wage slavery, well, you should start a business. “
The mosquitoes have planed their attack and Chris' sweat starts to drip onto me. I started praying despite myself, "OH shit get the board in place god please let the board!!!" The scaffold shakes wildly as Chris tries to wrestle it in place. It seems to me that it is seconds away from collapse. Owens sat back down assured that neather men are carpenters.
Friday, October 8, 2010
For the laughing Fat man
Despite your best efforts, your skin will sag loose
Hang from the bottom of your arms
As molecules of dust swirl in the light
Stabbing through the kitchen window
Despite your best efforts you will not
Be unburdened of your flesh
As the purple lotus advances toward heaven
One eye down toward the afterbirth puddle
Despite your best efforts the sun remains
Unconcerned, making time as gravity
Unwinds the screws of your joints and
Loosens taunt nerves
Until like a sail being deprived of wind
We go falling falling into the rushing current
Of nothingness
and all is as it should be
Hang from the bottom of your arms
As molecules of dust swirl in the light
Stabbing through the kitchen window
Despite your best efforts you will not
Be unburdened of your flesh
As the purple lotus advances toward heaven
One eye down toward the afterbirth puddle
Despite your best efforts the sun remains
Unconcerned, making time as gravity
Unwinds the screws of your joints and
Loosens taunt nerves
Until like a sail being deprived of wind
We go falling falling into the rushing current
Of nothingness
and all is as it should be
Lamb of moloch
Lamb of Moloch
It had been raining for five days but the work went on, continually. Day and night. Two shifts 12 hours each. It was called a “shut down”. That’s when a big petroleum processing plant shuts down completely for maintenance. The longer the plant is off- line the more money is lost. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. So the bosses push to get it done. Everybody works 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
A petroleum plant is a mass of gauges, pipes, heaters, coolers, valves, and dials. A knot of metal twisting stories high, called stacks. In the rain the “stacks” were surrounded by giant sheets of plastic, hung from wires and tied off to the scaffolding that surrounded the stacks. The wind was so high the rain still blew in. The sheets caught the wind like sails, and ripped. They popped and whistled. Everything in the stack was dripping wet. Guys had to climb up the “racks” or scaffolding--into the great tangle of pipes to do the work. In the rain and dark this was a terrible work. They were often nearly soaked before they even got to the place in the pipes they had to work. Lights shined harsh florescent light from the ground on the outside, but in the middle it didn’t help. Inside the stack small lights were hung at various points, but it was still too dark. Shadows hid everything because everything was a tangle of pipe. It was squirming through the entrails of a robot monster.
The guys wore harnesses and lanyards. They hooked their lanyards to the racks and climbed up. They called it “tying off”. But it was hard maneuvering through the tangle, even without lines to get hooked on gauges and tied up in. So guys often “flew” up. They climbed without tying off because it was quicker and easier. There were safety guys who were supposed to watch everything, but they often looked the other way because the job had to get done for anyone—including them—to get paid.
Most of the guys were x-cons. They had shaved heads and tattoos. The tattoos that made it obvious where they had been to anyone with an eye to see. It was absolutely the best job any con could get. When they all showed up at starting time they were loaded into a bus at the gate and the buss drove back to the stacks. They called the buss the “Grey Bird”, same as they do in jail. They had a ruff sense of humor, much like that in jail, and they cliqued up the same as they would in jail. The cliques followed roughly racial lines. There was some mixing, but not too much. Guys always jostled for position in the little hierarchies that were constantly being erected and challenged. Like in Jail one was either a shark or a fish. Also like jail there was a constant threat of violence. Fights often broke out but were quickly stopped. Confrontation was usually over petty grievances, and tended to be settled just as quick.
Adam considered it all slave mentality. He didn’t much talk to any of the guys. He kept to him-self. He had a plan. The plan was to make enough money to pay for a few semesters of school and quit as soon as he could. Most of the guys left him alone. He seemed to them not very sociable, or scared, or both. He was no threat and stayed out of the little rivalries so he was not given much mind one way or the other. When he did talk to the other workers he bitched about working conditions. Sometimes they seemed responsive, sometimes they just replied that they were glad to have a job, and to not let the foreman hear them talking that uppity shit.
One night the crew leader, tried to get under his skin. He kept sending him to get Benntol Karitine. BK was a solvent that the men used to melt the adhesive that was left on the pipe when the insulation was stripped off. It was one of the nastiest jobs, and the most dangerous because it involved a lot of climbing up and down the stacks. There was a large tank of the stuff on the ground near the stack. Adam would have to climb down with a five gallon bucket, fill it up by siphoning the BK from the tank, and tie the bucket to a line that was brought up to the top. If the bucket got hung up it was his job to un-lodge it.
At the bottom a guy was standing watching Adam climb down.
Why you let him do you like that AD, tell him to send someone else.
Adam took off his helmet and wiped his fore head on his sleeve. Fuck em, I’m gonna quit at the end of the week anyhow, I made enough to go back to school. This job is easy because every time I come down I rest. They don’t say much if I take my time.
AD listen, it’s all about respect you got to let guys know they can’t fuck with you like that. You shouldn’t have to come down every time. Its considered bitch work, you should be patin by now. Yous a painter by trade ant you.
Respect? Adam looked at him with amusement. I get paid the same weather I’m haulin BK or paintin. I don’t care what that chicken shit crew leader thinks of me. He gets paid as much as we do, they choose another one each night. They do that to make some guys think they are better than the rest. But truth is they ant no better than dog shit, just like the rest of us is treated like dog shit. l If you guys were smarter you’d demand to lay out while its ranin. Nobody should have to work in the damn pouring rain, but instead your too busy knocking dicks like you was in jail. Ya’ll should get it together and stop givein each other such a hard time. You should learn how to give the bosses a hard time instead.
I’m gonna be a boss sometime soon. That’s why you gotta get the good jobs not the shit jobs. It shows you can move up, take on more responsibility. One day i'll be manegemnt.
Adam laughed. It’s all the same. All jobs are the same out here if you are working in the stacks. You get paid the same and the conditions are the same and the hours are the same and the risks are the same. IF your not sittin your fat ass in the office then your out here with the rest of us dogs, and if your out here its all the same.
Adam tied off the bucket and started back up the stack. Half way up he got tangled up in his line. He could barely move enough to un-hook him-self. It was hard to see. The easiest thing to do was just un-hook, free himself from the tangle of lanyard, and tie off again. It was hard to move but much easier not being tied up to a scaffold. He went to unhook himself. Just as he did his foot slipped.
There was a large open spot just behind him. He fell into the hole backwards. His hard hat came off as he fell and he hit his head on a pipe. The lanyard lines trailed up as he fell like impotent wings.
The guy below watched blankly as he fell.
His broken body stretched across a gauge near the bottom of the stack, head dripping blood. The blood fell on the pipes, dripped slowly down and puddled on the concrete.
The lights smoked as the rain pelted them. The blood was absorbed into the concrete, or washed away by the rain.
It had been raining for five days but the work went on, continually. Day and night. Two shifts 12 hours each. It was called a “shut down”. That’s when a big petroleum processing plant shuts down completely for maintenance. The longer the plant is off- line the more money is lost. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. So the bosses push to get it done. Everybody works 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
A petroleum plant is a mass of gauges, pipes, heaters, coolers, valves, and dials. A knot of metal twisting stories high, called stacks. In the rain the “stacks” were surrounded by giant sheets of plastic, hung from wires and tied off to the scaffolding that surrounded the stacks. The wind was so high the rain still blew in. The sheets caught the wind like sails, and ripped. They popped and whistled. Everything in the stack was dripping wet. Guys had to climb up the “racks” or scaffolding--into the great tangle of pipes to do the work. In the rain and dark this was a terrible work. They were often nearly soaked before they even got to the place in the pipes they had to work. Lights shined harsh florescent light from the ground on the outside, but in the middle it didn’t help. Inside the stack small lights were hung at various points, but it was still too dark. Shadows hid everything because everything was a tangle of pipe. It was squirming through the entrails of a robot monster.
The guys wore harnesses and lanyards. They hooked their lanyards to the racks and climbed up. They called it “tying off”. But it was hard maneuvering through the tangle, even without lines to get hooked on gauges and tied up in. So guys often “flew” up. They climbed without tying off because it was quicker and easier. There were safety guys who were supposed to watch everything, but they often looked the other way because the job had to get done for anyone—including them—to get paid.
Most of the guys were x-cons. They had shaved heads and tattoos. The tattoos that made it obvious where they had been to anyone with an eye to see. It was absolutely the best job any con could get. When they all showed up at starting time they were loaded into a bus at the gate and the buss drove back to the stacks. They called the buss the “Grey Bird”, same as they do in jail. They had a ruff sense of humor, much like that in jail, and they cliqued up the same as they would in jail. The cliques followed roughly racial lines. There was some mixing, but not too much. Guys always jostled for position in the little hierarchies that were constantly being erected and challenged. Like in Jail one was either a shark or a fish. Also like jail there was a constant threat of violence. Fights often broke out but were quickly stopped. Confrontation was usually over petty grievances, and tended to be settled just as quick.
Adam considered it all slave mentality. He didn’t much talk to any of the guys. He kept to him-self. He had a plan. The plan was to make enough money to pay for a few semesters of school and quit as soon as he could. Most of the guys left him alone. He seemed to them not very sociable, or scared, or both. He was no threat and stayed out of the little rivalries so he was not given much mind one way or the other. When he did talk to the other workers he bitched about working conditions. Sometimes they seemed responsive, sometimes they just replied that they were glad to have a job, and to not let the foreman hear them talking that uppity shit.
One night the crew leader, tried to get under his skin. He kept sending him to get Benntol Karitine. BK was a solvent that the men used to melt the adhesive that was left on the pipe when the insulation was stripped off. It was one of the nastiest jobs, and the most dangerous because it involved a lot of climbing up and down the stacks. There was a large tank of the stuff on the ground near the stack. Adam would have to climb down with a five gallon bucket, fill it up by siphoning the BK from the tank, and tie the bucket to a line that was brought up to the top. If the bucket got hung up it was his job to un-lodge it.
At the bottom a guy was standing watching Adam climb down.
Why you let him do you like that AD, tell him to send someone else.
Adam took off his helmet and wiped his fore head on his sleeve. Fuck em, I’m gonna quit at the end of the week anyhow, I made enough to go back to school. This job is easy because every time I come down I rest. They don’t say much if I take my time.
AD listen, it’s all about respect you got to let guys know they can’t fuck with you like that. You shouldn’t have to come down every time. Its considered bitch work, you should be patin by now. Yous a painter by trade ant you.
Respect? Adam looked at him with amusement. I get paid the same weather I’m haulin BK or paintin. I don’t care what that chicken shit crew leader thinks of me. He gets paid as much as we do, they choose another one each night. They do that to make some guys think they are better than the rest. But truth is they ant no better than dog shit, just like the rest of us is treated like dog shit. l If you guys were smarter you’d demand to lay out while its ranin. Nobody should have to work in the damn pouring rain, but instead your too busy knocking dicks like you was in jail. Ya’ll should get it together and stop givein each other such a hard time. You should learn how to give the bosses a hard time instead.
I’m gonna be a boss sometime soon. That’s why you gotta get the good jobs not the shit jobs. It shows you can move up, take on more responsibility. One day i'll be manegemnt.
Adam laughed. It’s all the same. All jobs are the same out here if you are working in the stacks. You get paid the same and the conditions are the same and the hours are the same and the risks are the same. IF your not sittin your fat ass in the office then your out here with the rest of us dogs, and if your out here its all the same.
Adam tied off the bucket and started back up the stack. Half way up he got tangled up in his line. He could barely move enough to un-hook him-self. It was hard to see. The easiest thing to do was just un-hook, free himself from the tangle of lanyard, and tie off again. It was hard to move but much easier not being tied up to a scaffold. He went to unhook himself. Just as he did his foot slipped.
There was a large open spot just behind him. He fell into the hole backwards. His hard hat came off as he fell and he hit his head on a pipe. The lanyard lines trailed up as he fell like impotent wings.
The guy below watched blankly as he fell.
His broken body stretched across a gauge near the bottom of the stack, head dripping blood. The blood fell on the pipes, dripped slowly down and puddled on the concrete.
The lights smoked as the rain pelted them. The blood was absorbed into the concrete, or washed away by the rain.
Monday, October 4, 2010
fir dan decon
For Dan the con
Towers towards what end like
Moths think up!
Street-light moon sonatas
Little fuzzy bug stanzas like cups up
Whole opened like sewers belching filth lift lit
lard the lurd been good
Cheep thirst after Christ
but
That day
the sky cracked open with a terrible roar
a slit behind the clouds!
Roses beyond the stars opened for her
and Mary was assumed
a virgin
too pure for death
Towers towards what end like
Moths think up!
Street-light moon sonatas
Little fuzzy bug stanzas like cups up
Whole opened like sewers belching filth lift lit
lard the lurd been good
Cheep thirst after Christ
but
That day
the sky cracked open with a terrible roar
a slit behind the clouds!
Roses beyond the stars opened for her
and Mary was assumed
a virgin
too pure for death
The small café in the Barns and Noble was filled with people, but that didn’t matter to the old man. He sat with his wife and granddaughter. Since the couple belonged to the Church of the Apostolic Christ his wife wore a long skirt that looked to be cut out of a bed sheet. She had long thick white hair which was tied up in a bun on top of her head. The little ankle that showed was sheathed in very thick skin toned stockings. She was reading “God’s Plan For the Nation”.
Her granddaughter, 12, sat next to her. She was looking over a Goosebumps volume. She wore blue jeans and a tee-shirt tucked in. It read “Hot Hearts Bible Camp”.
The old man sat in between his granddaughter and his wife. No one talked. He wore jeans and a polo style shirt tucked in. His belly hung bloated and obscene over his belt. The shirt was streaked to capacity. His bulbous breasts hung down similar to a woman’s. His navel was a crater. He sat reading Pent House letters. Every so often he would look up and his eyes would follow a young girl walk by. After some time it became apparent that he had grown an erection. It looked like a stuffed slug hidden in his crotch. He would shift his position to better accommodate it. His breathing became heavy and none among his clan talked
When someone complained the barista finally came up to him and asked him to please leave. He got up laboriously, grunting, and walked toward the bathroom. The two other kept reading as if nothing had happened, never looked up.
Her granddaughter, 12, sat next to her. She was looking over a Goosebumps volume. She wore blue jeans and a tee-shirt tucked in. It read “Hot Hearts Bible Camp”.
The old man sat in between his granddaughter and his wife. No one talked. He wore jeans and a polo style shirt tucked in. His belly hung bloated and obscene over his belt. The shirt was streaked to capacity. His bulbous breasts hung down similar to a woman’s. His navel was a crater. He sat reading Pent House letters. Every so often he would look up and his eyes would follow a young girl walk by. After some time it became apparent that he had grown an erection. It looked like a stuffed slug hidden in his crotch. He would shift his position to better accommodate it. His breathing became heavy and none among his clan talked
When someone complained the barista finally came up to him and asked him to please leave. He got up laboriously, grunting, and walked toward the bathroom. The two other kept reading as if nothing had happened, never looked up.
Monday, September 27, 2010
move along
Street lights sparkling amid the broken glass. An empty lot. The bag man knows the weather. One leg gone in Vet Nam. Who cares, get along get along. Bags hanging off his weel chair, can’t stand to piss so pisses anyhow. Pants stained a million times over. Who care who cares get along now. Nothing to see. Sleeps under the light so he can see to fish through his pack. A few solitary pleasures, cheap wine, roll a cigerett. Sometimes another will walk up on him, share a pull of the bottle. Mostly not. Gone to the food bank. Gone to the salvation army. Who cares who cares move along.
Everybody gotta be some place not him. Every body gotta be some thing. Not him. Every body gotta point to prove. Not him. Bag men make no points. Look at him like an animal. Walk faster when he goes to ask for something. Its his own fault. This America. Everybody get shine in America. Everybody get something in America. Can be president. Can be big time movie star. Can be published intellectual. Can be millionaire zen master. In America. Move along. We all got things to be.
Everybody gotta be some place not him. Every body gotta be some thing. Not him. Every body gotta point to prove. Not him. Bag men make no points. Look at him like an animal. Walk faster when he goes to ask for something. Its his own fault. This America. Everybody get shine in America. Everybody get something in America. Can be president. Can be big time movie star. Can be published intellectual. Can be millionaire zen master. In America. Move along. We all got things to be.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
In the End: Part 1.1
In those days death stalked the earth unabated. After the bombs came the plague. It roamed from the skeletal cities to the scorched countryside, casting death like dice among the living. The dead were burnt in great pits in an attempt to stop the spread of the infection. They burnt day and night. Their light reflected from the low cloud sheath that blanketed the earth, bathing the night in orange translucence.
In those days the sick fell dead in waves. The infection would spread through populations multiplying exponentially, then recede for a time. Whene it appeared to be passing, it would swing its scythe again killing by the thousands. By the end of the war most of the cities were totally empty. Those that remained in them formed loose fraternities and tribes. They marked themselves by various means. The ones that the plague didn’t take held on like refugees in a dying world.
In those days it became clear that a few were immune to the sickness. It was not clear how infection spread, weather through blood, or water, or air. But if some people got sick, showed all the signs of death, but recovered, they never feel ill again.
In the beginning the National Guard tried to prevent looting and stop the spread of disorder and infection. The government tried to hang on to a bankrupt system long after it became apparent that it was all falling apart. And yet all the federal ministries finally succumbed to the plague. When most of the people who were in charge of governance died, and the administrative chain broke down, the ones that were left took their remaining wealth and drifted away. There were bomb shelters scattered across the continent, some still sealed perhaps. Most of the top officials tried holding up in secret bunkers in the D.C. area,or at the state capitals but when the plague infected them the residents either died, or left. One could come upon tunnels leading to the opened shelters, secret passage ways under government buildings or in the subways. All the ones that opened to the outside world were ether looted and abandoned or occupied by tribes.
Aron's mother set up a shop in the third floor of an old apartment store in what remained of Beaumont, Texas. Aron and his brother, along with some hired guns, would travel to Houston to loot and trade, bring the goods back, and barter with them. Everyone his immediate family save Aron's dad had survived the plague. Some would count them lucky.
Long before the bombs his uncle suspected a war. He bought land and built a large compound, complete with a bunker 15 feet down. He had co-owned a construction company. He figured out how out build an underground shelter via the internet, retired at 45, and did it.
Aron had no way of knowing how long they stayed in the bunker after the bombing stopped. He had heard that some of the big cities on the East coast were hit by nuclear missiles, but he had no way of knowing. Mostly it had been conventional bombs, which can do almost as much damage if they fall in sufficient numbers. But the war was over fairly quickly. Once the plague set in and spread across the continent, there were not enough people left to fight or command it. The governments quickly fell apart, and the solders deserted. The Bolivarian forces tried to occupy some cities but they died too quickly to get a foot hold. The plague had stopped the bombing, not a peace settlement; it was a much more efficient means of killing.
By the time the Duhon’s emerged most of the soldiers were dead or gone. There was no chain of command, so most of them hunkered down, joined a tribe, and tried to get by the best they could. There was no shortage of food and supplies. All the electricity stopped, but people had gas generators, and there was gas to freeze food and run other electrical gadgets . There was plenty of canned and otherwise preserved goods. When tribes fought they did so over fuel and weapons, or good land on which to settle, or machine parts, or the like. Some areas were safer than others, and one had to travel with armed.
Chad lived in the remains of the Lamar University Library. It was relatively well preserved because it was built like a fortress. A 5 story red brick, concrete and cinder block building with one 5 inch strip of reinforced glass running up each side for windows. They were set about 3 inches into the brick. The university was not bombed for whatever reason, only the nearby petrol plants. The library was basically one big monolith with a few windows. Chad had been a professor and when the bombing started and he held up in the library one day during an air raid, and decided that he would stay. He too was spared by the plague. The neighborhood surrounding the University was almost totally abandoned before long. He would loot the houses in the days following the bombing and help dispose of the dead, carrying them to the pits. People would feed him for his assistance. There was enough dead that he kept busy by day. AS people wandered off or died the surrounding area became slowly deserted and Chad took to growing vegetables in the old soccer field. He shot whatever he could, squirles, rats, possums, birds, ate vegetables and whatever he could loot.
In those days the sick fell dead in waves. The infection would spread through populations multiplying exponentially, then recede for a time. Whene it appeared to be passing, it would swing its scythe again killing by the thousands. By the end of the war most of the cities were totally empty. Those that remained in them formed loose fraternities and tribes. They marked themselves by various means. The ones that the plague didn’t take held on like refugees in a dying world.
In those days it became clear that a few were immune to the sickness. It was not clear how infection spread, weather through blood, or water, or air. But if some people got sick, showed all the signs of death, but recovered, they never feel ill again.
In the beginning the National Guard tried to prevent looting and stop the spread of disorder and infection. The government tried to hang on to a bankrupt system long after it became apparent that it was all falling apart. And yet all the federal ministries finally succumbed to the plague. When most of the people who were in charge of governance died, and the administrative chain broke down, the ones that were left took their remaining wealth and drifted away. There were bomb shelters scattered across the continent, some still sealed perhaps. Most of the top officials tried holding up in secret bunkers in the D.C. area,or at the state capitals but when the plague infected them the residents either died, or left. One could come upon tunnels leading to the opened shelters, secret passage ways under government buildings or in the subways. All the ones that opened to the outside world were ether looted and abandoned or occupied by tribes.
Aron's mother set up a shop in the third floor of an old apartment store in what remained of Beaumont, Texas. Aron and his brother, along with some hired guns, would travel to Houston to loot and trade, bring the goods back, and barter with them. Everyone his immediate family save Aron's dad had survived the plague. Some would count them lucky.
Long before the bombs his uncle suspected a war. He bought land and built a large compound, complete with a bunker 15 feet down. He had co-owned a construction company. He figured out how out build an underground shelter via the internet, retired at 45, and did it.
Aron had no way of knowing how long they stayed in the bunker after the bombing stopped. He had heard that some of the big cities on the East coast were hit by nuclear missiles, but he had no way of knowing. Mostly it had been conventional bombs, which can do almost as much damage if they fall in sufficient numbers. But the war was over fairly quickly. Once the plague set in and spread across the continent, there were not enough people left to fight or command it. The governments quickly fell apart, and the solders deserted. The Bolivarian forces tried to occupy some cities but they died too quickly to get a foot hold. The plague had stopped the bombing, not a peace settlement; it was a much more efficient means of killing.
By the time the Duhon’s emerged most of the soldiers were dead or gone. There was no chain of command, so most of them hunkered down, joined a tribe, and tried to get by the best they could. There was no shortage of food and supplies. All the electricity stopped, but people had gas generators, and there was gas to freeze food and run other electrical gadgets . There was plenty of canned and otherwise preserved goods. When tribes fought they did so over fuel and weapons, or good land on which to settle, or machine parts, or the like. Some areas were safer than others, and one had to travel with armed.
Chad lived in the remains of the Lamar University Library. It was relatively well preserved because it was built like a fortress. A 5 story red brick, concrete and cinder block building with one 5 inch strip of reinforced glass running up each side for windows. They were set about 3 inches into the brick. The university was not bombed for whatever reason, only the nearby petrol plants. The library was basically one big monolith with a few windows. Chad had been a professor and when the bombing started and he held up in the library one day during an air raid, and decided that he would stay. He too was spared by the plague. The neighborhood surrounding the University was almost totally abandoned before long. He would loot the houses in the days following the bombing and help dispose of the dead, carrying them to the pits. People would feed him for his assistance. There was enough dead that he kept busy by day. AS people wandered off or died the surrounding area became slowly deserted and Chad took to growing vegetables in the old soccer field. He shot whatever he could, squirles, rats, possums, birds, ate vegetables and whatever he could loot.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Story 1
Adam would always go see him on the pretense of playing with his kids. But he didn’t much like the kids. They were dirty faced little urchins. When he walked up to the trailer they were always sitting in the dirt. Looking up with idiot eyes. Drooling. Matted hair stuck to their dirty faces. The yard was a riot of broken parts. Machines in various states of disrepair. Cars. Dishwashers. A pile of plastic trash that was meant to be burnt but never was.
Dwain lived in a beaten trailer on an asphalt road. Adam lived up the hill. Adam would go to him, and just walk in the house. He would often be sitting at the table, drinking, smoking. Downturned eyes. Flies buzzing. The kitchen vomiting the stench of the rotting food that had long since clogged up the sink. Adam would just pull up a chair and sit down, and Dwain would start talking. He talked of two things only. His ex-wife and the kids. He had been a truck driver when they were married. He was gone for long stretches of time. He was a convict so he said that was the best he could do. His uncle owned the trucking company so he was thankful to have that.
In those days, he said, they fought all the time. He would come home and they would fuck first and fight not long afterwards. She wanted him to be in town. She was lonely. Plus raising kids was no easy chore. But he couldn’t find a job in town. Especially in Woodville, a tiny hamlet carved out of the Big Thicket. There wasn’t much work around. Most folks in town worked at the saw mill, but they would not hire him on account of his record.
Well, it got worse and worse. He started smoking speed to keep him up on long hauls. When he came home he was tweeked, strung out, could hardly get it up. So the sex stopped, and she thought he had been fucking lot lizards, so he was worn out. But it was the speed. The shit clogs up the veins down there he complained.
Adam would just sit a listen. He liked the smell of the whiskey and cigarettes. Sometimes his oldest daughter would be around. Adam liked her too. She was always dressed skimpily. Even at 11 Adam knew what the status was.
He would always complain that she was like her mother. “Girls only dress like that for one reason” he said, “and it ant cuse its hot. You see these little hoocies in that shit in the winter time. They want to get nailed. That’s the long and the short of it. Not long after she got pregnant and she never came around.”
In the fall Adam came was coming home from school and saw as the police and the ambulance their. The cops were standing around with the paramedics Adam ran down to the corner as fast as he could when the bus dropped him off. Dwain had took a handful of Vacitin, chased it with a bottle of whiskey, and died in his sleep.
Adam would always go see him on the pretense of playing with his kids. But he didn’t much like the kids. They were dirty faced little urchins. When he walked up to the trailer they were always sitting in the dirt. Looking up with idiot eyes. Drooling. Matted hair stuck to their dirty faces. The yard was a riot of broken parts. Machines in various states of disrepair. Cars. Dishwashers. A pile of plastic trash that was meant to be burnt but never was.
Dwain lived in a beaten trailer on an asphalt road. Adam lived up the hill. Adam would go to him, and just walk in the house. He would often be sitting at the table, drinking, smoking. Downturned eyes. Flies buzzing. The kitchen vomiting the stench of the rotting food that had long since clogged up the sink. Adam would just pull up a chair and sit down, and Dwain would start talking. He talked of two things only. His ex-wife and the kids. He had been a truck driver when they were married. He was gone for long stretches of time. He was a convict so he said that was the best he could do. His uncle owned the trucking company so he was thankful to have that.
In those days, he said, they fought all the time. He would come home and they would fuck first and fight not long afterwards. She wanted him to be in town. She was lonely. Plus raising kids was no easy chore. But he couldn’t find a job in town. Especially in Woodville, a tiny hamlet carved out of the Big Thicket. There wasn’t much work around. Most folks in town worked at the saw mill, but they would not hire him on account of his record.
Well, it got worse and worse. He started smoking speed to keep him up on long hauls. When he came home he was tweeked, strung out, could hardly get it up. So the sex stopped, and she thought he had been fucking lot lizards, so he was worn out. But it was the speed. The shit clogs up the veins down there he complained.
Adam would just sit a listen. He liked the smell of the whiskey and cigarettes. Sometimes his oldest daughter would be around. Adam liked her too. She was always dressed skimpily. Even at 11 Adam knew what the status was.
He would always complain that she was like her mother. “Girls only dress like that for one reason” he said, “and it ant cuse its hot. You see these little hoocies in that shit in the winter time. They want to get nailed. That’s the long and the short of it. Not long after she got pregnant and she never came around.”
In the fall Adam came was coming home from school and saw as the police and the ambulance their. The cops were standing around with the paramedics Adam ran down to the corner as fast as he could when the bus dropped him off. Dwain had took a handful of Vacitin, chased it with a bottle of whiskey, and died in his sleep.
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