Olympian

Jacob was feeling good, and why shouldn’t he? His law firm had the best month that he could remember, his daughter was in a good school, making good grades, his son just got a promotion at the law firm, and his wife was at that bitch of a stepmom’s and, for the next week all he was going to do was get fucked up and party with stripers. He was damn happy he stepped out on a limb and got the condo in the city. Of course the wife had complained at first, but after reminding her who brought home the bacon, (and lots of it) and making the case that being closer to the firm would allow him to be more productive, she finally saw it his way. Of course the diamond tennis bracelet didn’t hurt either.

After a night of cocaine and other vices, Jacob always found it helpful to eat a few Hydrocodones to take the edge off the come down. As he was driving home he could feel the warm sensation starting to wash over him, each wave a little more pleasant. “Yes”, he thought, "it had been a good night, and sleep will come thankfully soon".

Any nagging residue of guilt for the things he had done would be fixed by the drugs and the fun he would have tomorrow. "Besides", Jacob mused, "everybody had fun, no one got hurt, the girls and the drug dealers made a few bucks, nad I got what I needed, and I deserve it. Capitalism at it’s best, and lord knows it’s been good to me".

He settled into the plush leather of his Porsche. The best thing about having a Porsche is knowing how the little people looked at him when they saw what he was driving, and how the word spread throughout the club what he was driving. Strangely enough, he always tended to get more attention from the girls when he drove the Porsche. As well he should. He had done this for himself, he made it. He made it because he was smarter, harder working, and more cunning than the rest. "That’s justice", he thought. The only justice that’s worth the name, the people who have things are the people who work hard, and the people who have the guts and the capability and brains and the upbringing to make it. That’s a man’s job, to provide, to make it, and men are rightly ranked by how well they do in this respect.

For people like us, the millionaires, perhaps we more than men in a weird way. Jacob liked this thought. Everyone needed people to look up to, to emulate, and the little people have guys like us, guys who could push their way to the top while they stalled at the bottom. He laughed out loud at the perfect sense it all made. Without us, their betters, they would be more inclined to be skeptical, and skepticism is the mark of a sick society. People need their royalty, there betters. We show that you can make it in America. And, it gives them a sense of place to be ranked below us. It’s a good system.

Walking up to his apartment he was startled by a voice from behind, “Excuse me sir”.
He spun around. Standing a few feet from him was an old man in torn rags, with a long dreaded beard. “excuse me sir, I’m sorry to startle you, I’m a traveler and I don’t know anyone in this town, I’m looking for a warm bed and perhaps a meal. I’m an old man and I’ve traveled a long way, and still have far to go.”

Jacob was stunned. His brain clattered, "How the hell did this trash get in the gate! Where the hell did he come from, he just came out of nowhere! Probably because he has lots of experience sneaking up on people, he looks like some kind of dirty pervert. Needs money I’m sure. What a looser. How can people let them selves sink so low. I guess that's justice too".

Jacob was stunned at the call of the bum, “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are but you must be fucking crazy if you think anyone in their right mind is going to let you in their house. Most of you guys just ask for money, but you have some balls.” He started to reach into his pocket.

The bearded man responded, “I’m sorry to have offended you sir, it’s just that where I’m from travelers are offered hospitality, it’s the law, I thought it was universal."

Jacob laughed “The law, ha, you must be from Cuba or Uzbekistan or something. I don’t care what you barbarian communists do, in America everyone rows his own boat, that’s fairness, no one rows it for you and you are not asked to row anyone else’s, that’s justice, but since I’m in a good mood all I’ll over you a few bucks, even though I know it's wrong, or more exactly, unjust.

The old man raised his hand “I’m sorry sir, please keep your money, I wanted hospitality,not money, travelers should always be offered hospitality, as long as they don’t take advantage. You have queer ideas of justice . You know, where I’m from, to break the law of hospitality is a terrible offense, punishable by strict retribution.

Something had blown in Jacobs eye, and he was getting sleepy, the Hydrocodone was working it’s magic. He was rubbing his eyes and yawned, “listen old man, my eye burns and I’m very tired, I tried to give you a few bucks and that’s all I can do, so spare me your silly lecture and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”

Jacob turned to go. He had a hard time negotiating the elevator to his condo because his eye was burning a little. When he got upstairs he washed his face with warm water and felt immediately better. The wine and hydrocodone were working fine. He walked to the balcony for one last smoke. He didn’t realize how early it was. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon. “Good god” he thought, “I’ve been at it all night, like I was 18.” The sun was spilling red over the city. Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such a red sun rise. He went to bed, and dreamed he eye was being ripped from his skull.

Christmas Gift (variation on a theme in MO

Jack had not seen his son Daryl since he had went to prison five years ago. Jack had been trying to recover from alcoholism for 3 years, and felt deeply guilty about the way his son had turned out. Daryl was moved to a holiday unit so that the two could visit for about two hours in the reception room of the complex, which was specially designed for such occasions. Jack was very nervous about the meeting, but his sponsor in AA insisted that he go and tell Daryl how he felt and make amends. He felt that he had consistently let Daryl down, and that his criminality was the result of the terrible upbringing he had.

Daryl’s mom was killed while driving drunk, and at the time Jack was working shift work at a plant, six days a week. Jack’s brother Sam offered to help out by looking after the boy at night. Sam was a high school civics teacher. Sam molested Daryl at a pool party to commemorate his 6th birthday, and continued to do so until Daryl finally talked to his youth minister about it three years later.

When the story broke in the press and Jack had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill his brother, who was out on bail awaiting trial. As he was kicking in the door to his brother’s house the cops showed up, and Jack brandished a gun. It was a small town and the cops knew about the issue and were able to talk Jack out of the homicidal rage he was in, promising that justice would be served. After a very tense 30 minutes of negotiation Jack finally went along silently, and was charged with attempted aggravated assault. He was denied bail, but was shortly released after his brother had been sentenced to a 25 year bid.

Jack was put on probation, but was not able to successfully complete it because he took to drinking and drugging very hard, and got a string of DWIs and DUIs. Things spiraled out of control until Jack went to prison on felony DWI and child protective services arranged for a home for Daryl. The families he was put with were good people, but were unable to handle Daryl’s increasingly violent and disruptive behavior. He skipped from family to family until he went to Juvenile Detention for threating to kill the principal of his school at 16. At 18 he held up a liquor store and while doing so called the Korean owner a lot of racist names. After the owner began to protest his treatment Daryl pistol whipped him. Daryl had gotten Nazi tattoos in Juvenile Detention and the DA pushed for a hate crime conviction. The hate crime charge didn’t stick and Daryl accepted a plea for 8 years. He was sent to a “gladiator camp”, which is what they call units reserved for young violent criminals, but Daryl was a not considered an easy target, so mostly his time was without major incident and he managed to stay out of segregation. By the time Jack got out of prison Daryl had already began his stay.

As soon as Daryl was sentenced the youth minister Francis, who he had originally told about the abuse began writing him. Francis was very faithful in this task. As a result of the constant advice by the minister, Daryl attended church regularly in prison and enrolled in one of the few vocational programs the state cared to offer. There was a long waiting list for each but Francis was able to write the warden and get Daryl moved to the top. He learned to weld and got a high school diploma. Francis encouraged Daryl to begin thinking about his life critically from the day he went in. He also sent him religious and political literature to read. Daryl began to feel that it was not entirely his fault that he did what he did, and that there was a spiritual and political way out from the physical and mental pain the world inflicted on him.

When the cops buzzed Jack into the reception room Jack was so nervous he was shaking. The reception room was crowded and hot. People of all kinds filled the tables set up in the middle of the floor, or lounged on couches or played with children in a little corner with the too few toys the state brought in. Jack immediately spotted Daryl at a table and walked directly over to him. The two shook hands stiffly. The two sat and Jack immediately told Daryl what he needed to tell him. He told him that he felt he had been a terrible father and that he felt directly responsible for all the harm that had come to him. He told him that he was working hard to stay sober and put away money so that when Daryl got out he would have a little cushion and he wanted to do right by him finally. He told him that he was making good money and that if his son needed to move in with him he could. Daryl just sat quietly and listened. He wanted to rewind time, to make it all better, to make the pain stop. He wanted to stop the hate and the anger and the overwhelming rage and alienation that had driven him all his life. He wanted to tell his dad that it was ok, that it would be ok, that he was going to work hard and get sober and that life would be fine and that mom was watching over them both. But he didn’t say much of anything, he mostly simply listened, and when it was over they were both crying and they hugged for a long time. Daryl simply said that he was going to do right when he got out and that was the only planes he had, beyond that who could say? Then they went over to the couches and watched football saying little.

On the drive back Jack felt incredibly light. He felt the lightness and stillness that comes after a great emotional surge, the satisfied satiation of the soul. One small voice disturbed his spent state. As he slowed for a stop sign he suddenly knew in a quiet way he would no longer have to kill Sam when and if he was released. He stopped at the stop sign and put the car in park. The day was cold and grey and blanketed by thick grey clouds. High up in the cold air he could hear the harsh call of geese moving south, following their star mapped soul to a climate where food and warmth were abundant. Jack stepped out of the car and looked up, but could not see the geese. He could only here them, and assume that they were there, looking down at the world from their great and beautiful distances, detacthed and perfect like the gods.

The Party

The Party

We stood in small groups talking about all the interesting things we were doing or wanted to do or told ourselves we would do. The House was full, college kids mostly, and a few of us old duffers milling around. The music seemed to get louder as the night went on, or as I got drunker. Most of us men engaged in pissing contests. I couldn’t quite keep up but I tried. Any intellectual or pseudointellectual jargon drew me into the discussion. I can be smart too. Look at me I’m smart too. I can say interesting things. I wondered how much of it was for the women. The music got louder and louder, we all tried to talk over it, but it was hard. Kids spilled out into the back yard where the keg was. Everybody talking and talking and laughing and talking and some dancing. We pumped and pumped at the keg. A warm creeping delirium began to wash over me, the kind that starts in the middle of your guts and slowly spreads, the kind that makes you forget who you are.

I was watching Kate. I stared at her because I could never place her in context. She seemed tight lipped and hid a seething rage or pain or both, and seemed always terribly out of place, unable to relate, a spring wound to the breaking point, ready to explode. We barley spoke, but I felt a secret affinity to her, like the mother ship dropped us both off in the middle of this alien world and we both knew they were not coming back to get us. But still we were miles apart. I was convinced she hated me. Or maybe not and we just couldn’t really make the connection that friendship requires. We didn’t speak the same language.

The men mostly kept talking. It seemed like the women entirely drifted away from our ego and beer fueled n symposium. Our navel gazing grew louder and louder, more aggressive, more determined to make some theoretical point. The more we talked and stepped on each other’s toes, the more I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to smash something, or to fly away, or vibrate to the point of breaking into a thousand tinny pieces. One guy in particular got more convinced and began to dominate the conversation. In the end it usually boiled down to one or two contenders, and everyone else became spectators, or moved on. Someone began yelling. Good, I liked the yelling.

Meanwhile, Kate slid in and out of tight groups of people arguing about world affairs and then gave it up and began dancing. More and more the women began to drop out of these little contests and dance. Some wildly. Someone turned up Birdy Nam Nam and more slowly began to crowd the living rooms turned dance floor. Some of the men turned to look, but most just kept arguing. Matilda began to dance wildly, arms spread, spinning. All began to sweat. The men stood around the perimeter. I wanted so badly to dance but I was too afraid. I watched them like a raptor, whishing to be one of them, or close to them. What must it be like to be so beautiful and graceful? What must it be like to dance with total abandon, in love with yourself, like no one else exists, like the world was made for your body and the animal purity of it's motion and sweat and the flex and release of it's muscles, to dance as we did around camp fires, as we did when we could still hunt along planes where the air was full of sage and the harsh call of geese, and great herds of bison,to dance as we did before theory became our weapons of choice. I thought how badly it wanted to resolve my mind into my body entirely, but someone quoted Freud and so I returned to the conversation that was still raging in the corner.

babtism

Baptism.

On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.

One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.


Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.

Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.

They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.

After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.


When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.


A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.

Babtism

Baptism.

On weekends, the Harris County holding tank is pretty-much standing room only. It varies of course, depending on the population count, but it’s mostly packed. The holding tank is the place where they take you when you first get to jail, get booked in, and all the rest. It’s where you wait to be moved back to population.

One guy in the tank was named Pavitch, or something like that. He had a thick accent and he looked real scarred. The cops started calling him Pabitch because he kept pushing the button by the little speaker, asking when he was gona’ see the judge. I could tell by the conversation that he had been there quite a while. The cops are not supposed to keep you in holding more than 42 hours, because conditions are so crowded and dirty, but when the jail backs up, so does processing, so you might be there a while. You basically sleep on top of each other, on a dirty cold concrete floor, so after a few days guys can tend to get irate. Most take it out on each other, but some, like Pavitch try and buck the system. It might hve been too that Pavitch was not a citizen, or was in the U.S. illegally. If that’s the case, you might be there for a week. Guys that are ini the country illegal are treated much worse, because they don’t have the same rights legally as citizens, or that’s what it seems to me. I’v known migrant workers who were thrown in jail and never saw a lawyer till 3 months later, I mean they never even were asked about it. Nor did those guys ask any questions, they just sat and smoked cigarettes and waited.


Pavitch on the other hand was asking a lot of questions. He kept bugging the bosses, and they got to just ignoring him, or threatening him to let them be, and let them do their work. Other guys told him to let it alone, but Pavitch got more and more pissed. The guards got to taunting him “Little Pbbitch got his panties in a wad”, and all that sort of stuff.
Finally after Pavitch had rung the buzzer for the 100th time and asked to see the judge they rushed in, got on top of him, grabbed by his hands and feet, and took into the “get right room”. The get-right room is mostly for violent drunks who have pissed or otherwise defiled themselves. It is a cell that they keep very cold, and it has a drain in the middle of the floor for guys to piss and shit in. It is all white and very bright. Sometimes they spray guys down if they are covered with shit or throw-up or something. It happens.

They threw Pavitch in the room and rolled out a hose and sprayed him good. We could not see him from our cell because he had backed up against a wall, but we could hear him rasing a ruckus. HE was cursing and saying something in his foreign language and telling them all sorts of shit. They closed the door and he kept at it, cursing and carrying on and such. After twn minutes or so of that, we say the riot guys go in with fill dress and we could hear them working him over, telling him that this was what happened to bad little bitches. I figured they also handcuffed him to one of the rings that was secured to the wall.
After they left he was suddenly real quite. And guys went on talking about it low, telling how they told him so, and that’s what happens, and you got to get along to go along, and all that.


When I made bail I looked in the room as I walked out and saw that he was slumped in the corner, shivering and slumped and with what looked like a large bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man in hell. It was a terrible pathetic sight to see.


A few weeks later I ended up back in the tank, another DWI. When the cops transported me I threw up in the back-seat of the cop car and got a little bit of the get right room myself. Damn it was cold. I asked a round the cell block in and I heard that after they took him back to population he made a shank outta some plastic forks, and got a razor outa those stupid little razors they give you and cut up a medics face pretty bad, put his eye out is what they said. Maybe so, maybe not, you can’t believe half the shit you hear in the joint.

Time is

Look around you. You might think all this is sold. It looks solid, it looks so hard. No light gets through it. It takes up so much space. It is all so extended. You might think it stretches on and on and on. You might look up and see it looming above you like a terrible tower. Or descending onto you. A griffin, a gorgon, clawed destroyer. You might think it so inevitable. All of it. All so hard. All so authoritative. But the thing is, all the things we think matter, don’t, because all of it is burning. It’s all going down. All of it. All the things you think have so much power, so much authority. None of it means anything. It’s all a great gamble, and the game is fixed no matter how you play. You will lose if you play. In the end we all loose. This is a death machine. All of it. It grinds away day and night, its gears meshing, ripping through everything. But it is made out of paper. It rests upon sand. It is rotten. It is decaying. All the death it produces will ultimately swallow it, and we will live, we can live, we will be free and live.

The White Boy’s Yucatan 1.2: (Coba)

For the Reader: The area around Coba is not as built up as described, but it’s getting there, and it will soon be just as described, (if it isn’t already), as is the case with places like Xel Ha, Chizan Itza and ESP TULUM! The writer has been to all three places as a small boy and more recently (like 3 summers ago or so). Now Tulum is a tragedy. The biggest place to eat outside the park is called “Mayan Burger”. The events depicted here are otherwise quiet true.

Not more than ten years before, the village surrounding the pre-Columbian ruins of Coba, in the south of the Yucatan Peninsula, was only accessible by a 4x4, and only during certain parts of the year. Locals did most of the “tourist” trade. You caught a “tourist guide” in Playa Del Carmen at one of the local hotels and rode out to the park, if the roads and god’s allowed. The locals provided guides, jeeps, housing, and food, and some had special guides for surfing, or any other pleasurable sport or social activity you might be into. Adam vaguely remembered his dad had once bought a large bag of sweet smelling tobacco from a guide, and smoked it with him as he drove the jeep like he was invincible. When the surf board flew off the top of the jeep and the fin was damaged, the tour guide gave him one of his once they got to the huts. But now you couldn’t smoke in the tour busses that left from the resorts, and you couldn’t expect Club Med to give you anything.

Since the area had been re-named “The Mayan Yucatan” things had changed considerably. In the old days for instance (more-less than a decade ago) many of the people’s meals had come out of two large spring fed lakes, (lakes Coba and Macanxoc) that bordered the park. Now there was a sign that said “no fishing” and the huts surrounding the lake were gone. In their place was now a large resort complete with 5 star dining and a disco. International corporations, mostly from Europe and North America, along with a Mexican government devoted to “Market Fundamentals” had turned the place into a nice little strip mall in the jungle. The area around the entrance to the (now gated) park was full of large shops, and the road had been improved to allow for tour busses, bustling with kids who weighed almost as much as the bus. However, once you got into the park proper, it was relatively un-touched, and towards the back of the park, it was pretty empty because not that many tourists were willing to walk the distance to get to the bigger ruins. But out-side the park was all show: A Mayan themed shopping experience.

Most of the people who lived in the area tended to be darker that Mexican’s of the north, shorter and stocker, with wide shoulders. Many of them still spoke a form of Mayan/Spanish that was distinct from “proper Spanish”. Most of the signs were in Spanish, then English, then that dialect, which also looked to be spelled in a very distinct way.

About a half mile from the gate, the pavement stopped and you had to walk back, or catch an expensive four wheel ride. About a quarter mile from the gate one single little grass roofed hut was selling cold drinks and fruit. The place was very popular because most of the tourists (especially those brave or broke enough to walk) were not accustomed to the heat and humidity, and not smart enough to bring water. Adam and his family were no exception. While they stood in line for the wildly overpriced refreshments, Adam noticed a little boy who looked like he might have been from the area, walk from behind the refreshment hut and disappear a little way into the jungle that hugged the dirt road. After the tourists left the stand and walked a little way up, they were confronted with a dollar bill lying on the ground. Most if not all who saw it would stop to pick it up, but then SURPRISE! It jumped back a bit. Some would chase it like the jack-asses they were, almost into the jungle, until they noticed the fishing line tied to it. When Adam saw the spectacle, he stopped and pointed it out to his dad, who sighed and asked “what do you think that’s all about?”
Adam told him how he had seen the little Mayan boy disappear into the jungle.

Adam’s dad frowned and remarked “I guess he’s got us figured out.”
Adam started to walk on and saw that his dad was standing very still, looking serious, and raising his binoculars.

“Adam, look over there, look at that it’s a Green Jay, I think the people here call it a Seyeis Eb, or something. Very cool! Jay’s are some of the smartest birds, and they are cooperative breeders too, but also very territorial. Go figure.”

Adam looked through his binoculars and was impressed. The bird had an inquisitive look, and was making a lot of noise. It was iridescent in the light, as if it was lit from inside. Bright green and blue and black. Perfectly made.

“He might have a nest around, or one of his group’s has one around. They help each other out you know, they alert each other to danger and the males and females work very closely to raise the young. It is not uncommon for one female to feed another’s chicks.”

“So if they’re territorial why don’t the fight with each other, I thought they cooperate? Or I guess they do both?”

“Well, they do both, They are also known to watch other jays burry food, and come back later to dig it up. I don’t think we know exactly how they determine whether a fellow Jay is in the extended family group, or whether you are competition. They click up at any rate, and aren’t they pretty to look at!”

As they walked past the chirping jay Adam couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy. His dad’s words echoed in his ear; “he has us figured out.” As he passed the gringo bait he thought he herd laughter coming from the jungle. “He had us figured out”.

At the gates, the tourists had to line up to get tickets. In doing so they were given a sort of lecture by a employee of the park. Do not throw trash on the ground, pack out what you pack in, camping permits to the right, no narcotics, don’t feed the monkeys, poachers will be prosecuted severely, the bikes only go two miles back to the Nohoch Mul pyramid and if you fall while climbing it we are not responsible, etc..,

Adam asked his dad “Are their many monkeys, I don't remember that?”

“Lot’s. That was along time ago you were here last, you probably just don't remember.”

“Do you think we’ll see any?”

Jerald smiled “Probably, they will see you at any rate, they let each other know about our presence too, like the Jay’s. You’ll see. But they can be very friendly, especially if they think they’ll get a hand out.”

It wasn’t long before Adam heard a series of gut piercing screams floating down from the canopy. Spider Monkeys scuffled above him, dropping leaves, making a noise that you have to hear to understand; A high pitched scream, like a screeching near whistle and grunting and a lot of commotion above your head. A noise like “The humans are here. Well we are here too! Here I am, here we are, and you can’t get us and don’t fuck with us!”

A little way down the path Adam was stopped dead in his tracks by small black spider monkey that was sitting in the middle of the path about twenty feet ahead. A tiny ball of fur, big black expressive eyes, dark brown fuzzy fur with a white belly. The two just regarded each other. Like when you look into the eyes a smart good dog and you know there is some sort of inter-species connection, like you guys are thinking about each other, maybe each thinking “look, it’s another creature, what a trip!” The tiny thing just sat very still at first, and looked. A fur ball with big black eyes. Adam moved to get an energy bar, and the little monkey started jumping sort of, sitting and then jumping a little. Then he thought better of it and just sat down on the path. Then the monkey jumped a little, and sat down again. The two creatures just stared at each other. Just sitting, looking. It had very long arms and long legs and a puffy round body and a long tail. After about 10 seconds of stillness and staring another larger monkey cautiously came onto the path, slow, scooped up the little one and ran up into a tree. The little one clung to the other’s back with it feet and hands and tail.

Adam walked on to Nohoch Mul, the stepped pyramid. From the top of it, by the little cool stone room with slick walls where millions or billions of humans had run their hands among the stone, putting the oil of themselves on it and rubbing it smooth, where their was an alter and a little indention on the floor, where humans had once cut each other’s guts out and ate or burned them for the pleasure of the thirsty god’s, looking toward the park, the world was so green and green and green stretching, a thick robe of green, so much wildness and life and potential, but to the other side, toward the city, grey and smoke and shops, where the future lies buried in the still beating guts of the present and has yet to be cut out.

The White Boy’s Yucatan 1.1: (Coba)

The White Boy’s Yucatan 1.1: (Coba)

For the Reader: The area around Coba is not as built up as described, but it’s getting there, and it will soon be just as described, (if it isn’t already), as is the case with places like Xel Ha, Chizan Itza and ESP TULUM! The writer has been to all three places as a small boy and more recently (like 3 summers ago or so). Now Tulum is a tragedy. The biggest place to eat outside the park is called “Mayan Burger”. The events depicted here are otherwise quiet true.

Not more than ten years before, the village surrounding the pre-Columbian ruins of Coba, in the south of the Yucatan Peninsula, was only accessible by a 4x4, and only during certain parts of the year. Locals did most of the “tourist” trade. You caught a “tourist guide” in Playa Del Carmen at one of the local hotels and rode south, if the roads provided. The locals provided guides, jeeps, housing, and food, and some had special guides for surfing. Adam vaguely remembered his dad had once bought a large bag of sweet smelling tobacco from a guide, and smoked it with him as he drove the jeep like he was invincible. When the surf board flew off the top of the jeep and the fin was damaged, the tour guide gave him one of his once they got to the huts. But now you couldn’t smoke in the tour busses that left from the resorts, and you couldn’t expect Club Med to give you anything.

Since the area had been re-named “The Mayan Yucatan” things had changed considerably. In the old days for instance (less than a decade ago) many of the people’s meals had come out of two large spring fed lakes, (lakes Coba and Macanxoc) that bordered the park. Now there was a sign that said “no fishing” and the huts surrounding the lake were gone. In their place was now a large resort complete with 5 star dining and a disco. International corporations, mostly from Europe and North America, along with a Mexican government devoted to “Market Fundamentals” had turned the place into a nice little strip mall in the jungle. The area around the entrance to the (now gated) park was full of large shops, and the road had been improved to allow for tour busses, bustling with kids who weighed almost as much as the bus. Once you got into the park proper, it was relatively un-touched, and towards the back of the park, it was pretty empty because not that many tourists were willing to walk the distance to get to the bigger ruins. But out-side the park was all show: A Mayan themed shopping experience.

Many of the people who lived in the area tended to be darker that Mexican’s of the north, shorter and stocker, with wide shoulders. Many of them still spoke a form of Mayan/Spanish that was distinct from “proper Spanish”. Most of the signs were in Spanish, then English, then that dialect, which also looked to be spelled in a very distinct way.

About a half mile from the gate, the pavement stopped and you had to walk back, or catch an expensive four wheel ride. About a quarter mile from the gate one single little hut was selling cold drinks and fruit. The place was very popular because most of the tourists ( especially those brave or broke enough to walk) were not accustomed to the heat and humidity, and not smart enough to bring water. Adam and his family were no exception. While they stood in line for the wildly overpriced refreshments, Adam noticed a little boy who looked like he might have been from the area, walk from behind the refreshment hut and disappear a little way into the jungle that hugged the dirt road. After the tourists left the stand and walked a little way up, they were confronted with a dollar bill laying on the ground. Most if not all who saw it would stop to pick it up, but the SURPRISE! It jumped back a bit. Some would chase it like the jack asses they were, almost into the jungle until they noticed the fishing line tied to it. When Adam saw the spectacle, he stopped and pointed it out to his dad, who sighed and said and asked Adam what that was about. Adam told him how he had seen the little Mayan boy disappear into the jungle.

Adam’s dad frowned and remarked “I guess he’s got us figured out,”. Adam started to walk on and saw that his dad was standing very still, looking serious, and raising his binoculars.

“Adam, look over there, look at that it’s a Green Jay, I think the people here call it a Seyeis Eb, or something. Very cool! Jay’s are some of the smartest birds, and they are cooperative breeders too, but also very territorial .”

Adam looked through his binoculars and was impressed. The bird had an inquisitive look, and was making a lot of noise. It was iridescent in the light, as if it was lit from inside. Bright green and blue and black. Perfectly made.

“He might have a nest around, or one of his group’s has one around. They help each other out you know, they alert each other to danger and the males and females work very closely to raise young. It is not uncommon for one female to feed another’s chicks.”

So if their territorial why don’t the fight with each other, I thought they cooperate?

Well, they do both, They are also known to watch other jays burry food, and come back later to dig it up. I don’t we know exactly how they determine whether a fellow Jay is in the extended family group, or weather you are competition, at any rate, aren’t they pretty to look at!”

As they walked past the chirping jay Adam couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy. He had us figured out.

At the gates, the tourists had to line up to get tickets. In doing so they were given a sort of lecture by a employee of the park. Do not throw trash on the ground, pack out what you pack in, camping permits to the right, no narcotics, don’t feed the monkeys, the bikes only go two miles back, to Nohoch Mul pyramid, If you fall while climbing it we are not responsible, etc..,

Adam asked his dad “Are their many monkeys, I don't remeber that”

“Lot’s. That was along time ago you were here last, you probably just don't remember.”

“Do you think we’ll see any?”

Jerald smiled “They will see you at any rate, they let each other know about are presence to, like the Jay’s. You’ll see. But they can be very friendly, especially if they think they’ll get a had out.”

It wasn’t long before Adam heard a series of high pitched screams floating down from the canopy. Spider Monkeys scuffled above him, dropping leaves, making a noise that you have to hear to understand. A high pitched scream, like a screeching scream and a lot of commotion above your head. A noise like “The humans are here. Well we are here too! Here I am, here we are, you can’t get us don’t fuck with us!”

A little way down the path Adam stopped dead in his tracks by small black spider monkey. A tiney ball of fur, big black expressive eyes. Like when you look into the eyes a smart good dog and you know there is some sort of inter-species connection, like you guys are regarding each other, maybe each thinking “look, its another creature!” The tiny thing just sat very still, and looked. Adam moved to get an energy bar, and the little monkey started jumping sort of, sitting and then jumping. Then he thought better of it and just sat down on the path. Then the monkey jumped a little, and sat down again. The two creatures stared at each other. Just sitting, looking. It had very long arms and long legs. Cautiously another larger monkey came onto the path, scooped up the little one and ran into a tree.

From the top of Nohoch Mul, by the little cold stone room where humans cut each other’s guts out, looking toward the park, the world was so green and green and green stretching, a thick robe of good green, so much wildness and life. To the other side, toward the city, grey and smoke.

The future is unwritten and lies dormant in the heart of the present.

king hank

King Hank 1.1.

There was something about Hank that made you want to get away from him and take a shower. It was hard to say exactly what it was. Perhaps it was his voice, reduced to a croak by millions of cigarettes. Or maybe his smell, which was just slightly rotten, like a fish sandwich that had just went over. His skin was like leather that had been left out in the sun to shrivel and rot. It was blotched and spotty, with deep cracks covered over with a film of dried blood, like he had pealed, and burnt, and pealed, and burnt again, ad infinitum. The inside of his arms were covered in large welts with small holes in the middle. He was a small man with thin limbs, but he had an enormously bloated gut. It was hard as a watermelon and did not jiggle when he walked. It looked like the stomach of a pregnant woman. His liver and kidneys were swollen. He didn’t know that he was filling with piss and bile. As a result his eyes wore a yellow film.

King Hank was truck driver three quarters of the year in the U.S., and a resident of the Corona Cantina’s back room for the other three months.

Mick and Adam had just got into Juarez and they were both very thirsty and ready for some action. After crossing the bridge, they walked into the first cantina they could find, which was right off the market square. It was deserted except for Hank, the bartender, and a bar-back. Adam went up to the bar and sat down, ordered two drinks, and started talking to Hank. Everyone shook hands and was very friendly, as Adam suspected based on his other trips to Mexico. After some preliminaries Adam got down to business, Hank looked like just the man he needed to talk to.

“So, Hank, they say it’s a war zone down here, that you can get your nuts cut off trying to score a little blow, whata’ya think?”

The Bar tender, who was wearing a rosary and had religious tattoos all over his arms and neck was watching the conversation very closely.

Hank took a shot of tequila, “Hell no, you just have to be careful, the black market is big-time money for these folks, just deal with people you know, like my friend Jesus here. You can get anything you want down here for penny’s on the dollar. You just have to know the right people, and I’m the right people. You stick with me friend, we’ll have us a good ol’time.”

The bartender winked at hank and told the bar-back something in Spanish. The bar back asked if we needed anything.

Adam said, “That’s just what we were discussing.”

The bar back, who spoke a little English, said he would see about that, and was there anything else and Adam and Mick placed orders for Valium, snuff, and cigarettes. After prices and quantities were agreed upon, the bar-back left.

Jesus said “You come at a bad time, the Mexico marines are around. The cops, ok, but the federalies, no good, you know? No one selling here, everyone have to go about 30 miles away.”

“So is it super dangerous?”

Jesus brought another round of beers and sucked down the rest of his, “For runners maybe, for bosses, maybe, for you, no, you just gotta know somebody you trust. This is how we survive. People want fun, we help them. This our other market. You take care of us, we take care of you, everybody’s happy. The American want us to stop our market, but they still come for it.”

The the bar-back came walking in. He threw the cigarettes and valium on the table. Adam and Mick paid and tipped generously. He said that the coke would take a while.

Mike leaned back in his stool. “Hell yea, I like this shit, I think I’m gonna stay for a while”. In American what a hassel everything is, this is as easy as ordering takeout.”

The bar-back jumped at the opportunity. “You need room?”

Mike said, “Yea, how much?”

“200 pesos, two beds, air conditioning.”

Mike smiled big and handed him 300 pesos “Damn that’s cheap, hook it up and keep the change brother” The bar-back ran out.

Just then a small fat man walked in who looked and sounded uncannily like a Mexican version of Joe Peschie. He moved his hands a lot and talked very loudly in a screeching voice. He walked very fast. Adam was starting to get drunk and liked the look and sound of him. He walked right over to Adam like they were old buddies and claped him on the back, standing very close.

“I’m Jorge, I take care of you, what you want, what you doing.”

“Shit, just chilling out, drinking.”

“Yea, you like drink, me too I like drink.”

Adam got the hint and called for another round, but Hank spoke up, “Let me get the next round, this little prick here needs a drink to calm him the fuck down”, but there was no malice in his tone.

Jorge laughed loudly “This mutha fucky, you know this guy, he a fuckey, you know, he wanna sexo my daughters. Oh shit, he real fucky, this my friend though.”

Hank laughed a harsh coughing laugh, and breathed laboriously, “Yea fuck yea I wanna sexo. I went over to his house for Christmas, he’s got 8 daughters, trying to marry off all of them, I said shit, let me take one, I think I can handle some of that young stuff.”

Hank was almost drooling, Jorge sucked down another beer, “Jesus bring me tequila and put it on the mother fucky tab or I stab him.” He looked at Adam and Mick “You my friend, you friend with Hank, you my friend too, I tour guide, I show you everything, I get everything.”

Adam said “shit yea, fuck yea, lets get some coke and ill snort it with you”

Jesus looked at Jorge, “no, no, marines in town, anything else….”

“Well, is there an ATM around, I need to get some money?”

Mick leaned over to Adam “You need to calm down dude, don’t mention that shit again, your too loud, its being taken care of, here, chill out, eat a valium”
.
Adam laughed “Hell no I wanna go up up up and away, you can have the valium, whatever, ok, ill chill, come on Jorge, lets go to the ATM”

“Lets go my friend, you my friend, I take care of you like I take care my own ass, you lickey family.”

Jorge knew everyone on the street. He walked fast, Adam had to almost run to keep up. He was hollering and whistling at people, they smirked, or waved or shook their heads at him. He never stopped talking, he was turning around to talk as Adam struggled to keep up. He had enormous energy for a small fat guy. “I tour guide, I help gringo’s, show them around, but not too many gringo’s these days.”

Adam was almost running “They say it's a killing zone down here, looks pretty calm to me.”

“It ok, you just stick with me my friend, anyone ask you, you say you with me, I take care of you, I know everyone even big bosses, you know someone, its ok. Fighting is between other families, not us, we ok, I know everybody. This neighborhood, it ok, no fighting for it. Some barrios they fight for, not this one, border guards work for bosses too, they have big guns, so this neighborhood ok. You like to go up, here, 20 pesos.” He showed Adam a small pink pill, Adam knew exactly what it was and snatched it out of his hand and dry swallowed it .

“Fuck yea, college kids need to stay awake and so do I, you got any more of that, shit we don’t need nothing else if you got Addies, we can get a nice buzz on them and drink.”

Jorge grimaced “No, certain things only some sell, not that, that one for me. I don’t have more. Only some people, go through Jesus for that, he works for bosses, he owns two bars you know, bosses lend money and he sell for them. I show you something else. This special place.”

Adam remained silent until they reached the ATM, which was guarded by a man with a machine gun. He made a withdraw and handed Jorge what he thought was 2 dollars but was actually 20. When he realized it, it didn’t matter. He had given more to street people in the US. Easy come, easy go.

Jorge pocket the bill, “You good friend, I take you where I take all good friends, you good man, I can tell, follow me, you no bad person.”

After more twists and turns down the narrow cobble-stoned streets, flanked by waving and scowling people alike, the arrived at “the bodega”. It was a two story building with all the windows and doors open, fans blowing, under what looked to be a thatched roof, painted bright colors, paintings of tropical scenes on the wall and a large bird of paradise squawking perched on a bamboo “T” with a little chain on his leg. Adam thought it was perfect creature, chained for our amusement. In all the corners, large hibiscus red, pink and bright yellow. A sweet floral smell. A large aquarium with more creatures snatched from the warm sea.

Jorge went to fix himself a drink at a fully stocked bar. “You good man, I only bring good men here, you know, ones that know how to act, no crazy’s, you know, some people crazy, too ruff, I know you ok, you no ruff man, and you generous.”

All around, young ladies were laying in various states of repose, stretched out over lush looking couches and chairs, some looked sleepy or maybe high, all looked bored, eight lovely women, scantily dressed in what might have been beach wear had a beach been close, white cotton dresses, bikini tops, floral patterned wraps, smoking, drinking, looking, stretching, yawning. All smiled up at Adam, and he stood frozen, trying to smile, to look casual. He was getting the idea and needed a drink badly. “oh shit” he thought “what a trip”. Adam half expected to see the Paul Gogan stroll down the stairs with a hard on.
Jorge came over with rum and coke, “Relax friend, sit, drink, relax, you get to know my friends”

Adam smiled at the girls, shook hands, “Jorge has a lot of friends” they just smiled coyly and nodded, on his left, one lady sat up, started to put on some sweet smelling lotion. Jorge walked over to her, said something in Spanish, she looked over at Adam, motioned, held out the bottle of lotion.

“You OK, friend, its calm here, come over here, she want help putting lotion on back, you good guy, I take care of you, see, you no a gay huh? Come help my friend”

Adam automatically began to move to sit beside her on the couch. An older man came in, with some white in his hair, dressed in a white cotton button up shirt and nicely creased jeans. Two of the women got up and went over to him, kissing him on both sides of the cheek. He said something to Jorge looking at Adam. Jorge replied. One of the man’s companions had some sort of wrap around dress on, which she took off, exposing bright small bikini bottoms, folded it, laid on a couch, walked, no, moved, over to the bar, fixed three drinks. She moved very slowly and it smelled like flowers in the room. She walked back to the man with the drinks on a tray, handed him something which he slipped in his pocket, looked pleased, told Jorge something in Spanish looking at Adam. Jorge replied laughing. Adam thought he heard something about potatoes and baby’s and gringos, they both laughed. Adam felt like a child that did not get the jokes grown-ups were telling. The man gave the other girl a bill. She smiled and kissed him on the lips. The man winked at Adam, and walked out.

Jorge pressed “put on the lotion, she like you, don’t be rude.”
.
Adam began putting on the lotion without thinking. Sliding hands over smooth dark skin. Black hair pulled up over the neck, curls. Gliding gliding. The smell of coconut. She reached around and unclasped her top. Adam rubbed the lotion on her shoulders arms, neck, traced the ridge of her ear, she turned around, “on front too” she said. Weightless. That feeling in the lower stomach, heat spreading slowly down, stirring. Jorge grinning. All the lady’s watching. Our hearts are birds too, he thought. Birds of paradise, perfectly made, but chained. Our hearts have been chained but need to fly. Lotion on her shoulders, both hands moving toward her breasts. The warm stirring, spreading terseness. Adam stood up quickly, looked at Jorge, “Grab a beer and lets go back to the bar.”

Jorge looked a little displeased, shocked. “You ok? You relax, relax, it ok, everything ok, she like you.”

The lady looked a little put out, told something to Jorge, made a huffing sound and started putting her top back on.

Jorge said with a slight frown, “You want to go see boys?”

“No, no, uh… this is great, just fine, I just uh, I need to keep an eye on Mike, you know, he’s still back there, you know, we’ll come back.”


The grin returned, “It’s ok my friend, the beers on me, we go now, maybe come back, you want Viagra, I get it for you.”

Adam felt something like shame and something like hotness in his belly. “Ok, yea, maybe so, lets just come back later.”

Jorge led the way back, talking to everyone on the street, some laughing, some grimacing, some yelling obscenities.

At the bar now there was music. Everyone was dancing and the delivery was made. Adam asked Jesus where Hank was and the bar-back came and took them out back. There was a small court yard, and a stair case. Upstairs an open air room, windows knocked out, like a covered landing. In the back of the landing more rooms.

Hank was hunkered over a large line of coke. When he looked up he reached in his pocket and threw a small back of coke on the table. A large quarter gram, two or three fat lines. Just enough. Good. See that the bar-back is tipped he thought. 10 dollars for a fat quarter gram, amazing. He went to go get Mike. Standing outside on the landing Adam looked down to watch Mike and Jorge arguing. Jorge had tried to rip him off. Jorge was explaining to Mike that they were the best of friends, family even and that he would never do such a thing.
Mick came up in a huff, “That little prick tried to rip me off.”

Adam was putting drops of water down his nose, the burning was exquisite “He’s ok , he’s just trying to make a buck, feed his family, just like everyone here. Everyone’s hustling. Did you see how many prostitutes were on the street, that's some sad shit.”

Mick was looking at Hank with a look of disgust. “No he’s not ok, he’s a street pimp, you hear him talking shit and you believe him, he’s a slime bag, sound to me like he’s a common hustler like any other, I’m tellin you he tried to get me for 20 dollars.”

Hank broke in, “You got to tip these guys well or they just try and steal it from you, you make too much noise, you might get more than a couple of valium. They all work for the same folks. What took you so long Adam? I was thinkin maybe they had you strug up with your little nuts cut out, and I was gonna have to do your QG. No sense letting good yayo go to waste.”

Adam was pouring a line of coke. “We went by the bodega.”

Hank was looking cautiously at Mick “He take you to the bodega huh, you meet Consuela, she’s so sexy, you outta get you some of that, she gets firsts shot at white guys, always a pecking order you know, that’s good stuff, not that affectionate you know, but good, prime good grade A, when I’m on the road, you know, driving my truck, all I get is lot lizards, you know, like sticking your dick in a glass of hot water. The girls here, they are young you know, not so stretched out. Down here, you got a few hundred green-backs to throw around, shit, you a king, not like in the states. In the states a couple hundred don’t get much attention, but down here you are a VIP. You just have to tip everybody, and I mean everybody. That’s why it’s best to make sure you only deal with a few guys. This is how they live you know, fine by me. Suits me just fine.”

Mick looked like he was getting ready to kill someone. He was opening and closing his fists. Adam was feeling worried “Naw man, that’s some sad shit, those young women, you know, that’s fucked up, and anyway fuck that dude, he coulda’ asked me for the money.”

Adam agreed “I can’t believe there’s that much prostitution on the street, some of those girls looked so young, that fucked up, and all us gringo down here to bear up the white man’s burden I recon.”

Hank was holding a lighter under a spoon that held a mixture of coke and water. “Shit, girls that hot, I mean at the bodega, can always find other work, it’s just way better money to lie on your back a few days a week. It’s not any differnt in any major European city. I been all around, and Europe is just about the same, this is their red light district you know, but only after dark. In Europe it’s more segregated, that's all. In the bodega the girls have to pay the house some, but you know who runs the house, and I’ll tell you, the house takes care of its own, they run this whole neighborhood, those girls could get jobs as waitresses or wiping tables, or get married to one of the gang guys, which they will end up doing anyhow, but shit, id do it, wouldn’t you, a couple hundred a night, shit, I might let you stick it to me for a hundred a night.”

Adam was doing a line. “I bet those girls are beat up and everything elese.”

“Let me tell you something, you hit one of those girls, and you are in big trouble. The windows are open in the rooms upstairs too. There is a balcony, but they windows have screens on them so you can’t go outside. Dudes sit out their and listen to them fuck, just to make sure the job is done and there is no ruff stuff. Down here no one is a “free agent” everyone works at the pleasure of the house, and the house protects it’s own. I figure, it usta be like that in America, before organized crime was busted up.”

Adam thought of Hank working away at some poor young woman in some hot smelly room, heaving and huffing, his sweat and slobber dripping on her, red faced, obscene blotted belly, grunting, her turning her face away, what was she thinking about? Birds in the blue sky? Her small frame limp and docile under his great pounding weight, his stench, his bulbous cock like a fat and dirty slug, did he wear a condom, did he cum inside her, what must she be thinking about, her child, her family, the money…the money…the money, but her heart a bird.”

Mick looked ready to commit murder “you stupid fat piece of shit, what do you think your doing, you can’t free-base that, you dog, go drive your truck into a ravine.” He stomped down passing Jorge as he came up. .

“Adam, Consuela and her friends are here, you my friend, I take care of you, come on down, have fun, dance, we all dance…”

Hank licked his lips. “you better get your friend outa’ here before he gets himself killed. Come back if you ditch him and we can get nice and fucked up. I mean that. I got some business to take care of.”

As Adam and Mick hailed a cab, he thought he heard the sound of geese calling, way up.

king hank

King Hank 1.1.

There was something about Hank that made you want to get away from him and take a shower. It was hard to say exactly what it was. Perhaps it was his voice, reduced to a croak by millions of cigarettes. Or maybe his smell, which was just slightly rotten, like a fish sandwich that had just went over. His skin was like leather that had been left out in the sun to shrivel and rot. It was blotched and spotty, with deep cracks covered over with a film of dried blood, like he had pealed, and burnt, and pealed, and burnt again, ad infinitum. The inside of his arms were covered in large welts with small holes in the middle. He was a small man with thin limbs, but he had an enormously bloated gut. It was hard as a watermelon and did not jiggle when he walked. It looked like the stomach of a pregnant woman. His liver and kidneys were swollen. He didn’t know that he was filling with piss and bile. As a result his eyes wore a yellow film.

King Hank was truck driver three quarters of the year in the U.S., and a resident of the Corona Cantina’s back room for the other three months.

Mick and Adam had just got into Juarez and they were both very thirsty and ready for some action. After crossing the bridge, they walked into the first cantina they could find, which was right off the market square. It was deserted except for Hank, the bartender, and a bar-back. Adam went up to the bar and sat down, ordered two drinks, and started talking to Hank. Everyone shook hands and was very friendly, as Adam suspected based on his other trips to Mexico. After some preliminaries Adam got down to business, Hank looked like just the man he needed to talk to.

“So, Hank, they say it’s a war zone down here, that you can get your nuts cut off trying to score a little blow, whata’ya think?”

The Bar tender, who was wearing a rosary and had religious tattoos all over his arms and neck was watching the conversation very closely.

Hank took a shot of tequila, “Hell no, you just have to be careful, the black market is big-time money for these folks, just deal with people you know, like my friend Jesus here. You can get anything you want down here for penny’s on the dollar. You just have to know the right people, and I’m the right people. You stick with me friend, we’ll have us a good ol’time.”

The bartender winked at hank and told the bar-back something in Spanish. The bar back asked if we needed anything.

Adam said, “That’s just what we were discussing.”

The bar back, who spoke a little English, said he would see about that, and was there anything else and Adam and Mick placed orders for Valium, snuff, and cigarettes. After prices and quantities were agreed upon, the bar-back left.

Jesus said “You come at a bad time, the Mexico marines are around. The cops, ok, but the federalies, no good, you know? No one selling here, everyone have to go about 30 miles away.”

“So is it super dangerous?”

Jesus brought another round of beers and sucked down the rest of his, “For runners maybe, for bosses, maybe, for you, no, you just gotta know somebody you trust. This is how we survive. People want fun, we help them. This our other market. You take care of us, we take care of you, everybody’s happy. The American want us to stop our market, but they still come for it.”

Just then the bar-back came walking in. He threw the cigarettes and valium on the table. Adam and Mick paid and tipped generously.

Mike leaned back in his stool. “Hell yea, I like this shit, I think I’m gonna stay for a while”. In American what a hassel everything is, this is as easy as ordering takeout.”
The bar-back jumped at the opportunity. “You need room?”
Mike said, “Yea, how much?”

“200 pesos, two beds, air conditioning.”

Mike smiled big and handed him 300 pesos “Damn that’s cheap, hook it up and keep the change brother” The bar-back ran out.

Just then a small fat man walked in who looked and sounded uncannily like a Mexican version of Joe Peschie. He moved his hands a lot and talked very loudly in a screeching voice. He walked very fast. Adam was starting to get drunk and liked the look and sound of him. He walked right over to Adam like they were old buddies and claped him on the back, standing very close.

“I’m Jorge, I take care of you, what you want, what you doing.”

“Shit, just chilling out, drinking.”

“Yea, you like drink, me too I like drink.”

Adam got the hint and called for another round, but Hank spoke up, “Let me get the next round, this little prick here needs a drink to calm him the fuck down”, but there was no malice in his tone.

Jorge laughed loudly “This mutha fucky, you know this guy, he a fuckey, you know, he wanna sexo my daughters. Oh shit, he real fucky, this my friend though.”

Hank laughed a harsh coughing laugh, and breathed laboriously, “Yea fuck yea I wanna sexo. I went over to his house for Christmas, he’s got 8 daughters, trying to marry off all of them, I said shit, let me take one, I think I can handle some of that young stuff.”

Hank was almost drooling, Jorge sucked down another beer, “Jesus bring me tequila and put it on the mother fucky tab or I stab him.” He looked at Adam and Mick “You my friend, you friend with Hank, you my friend too, I tour guide, I show you everything, I get everything.”
Adam said “shit yea, fuck yea lets get some coke and ill sort it with you”

Jesus looked at Jorge, “no, no, marines in town, anything else….”

“Well, is there an ATM around, I need to get some money?”

Mick leaned over to Adam “You need to calm down dude, don’t mention that shit again, your too loud, its being taken care of, here, chill out, eat a valium”
.
Adam laughed “Hell no I wanna go up up up and away, you can have the valium, whatever, ok, ill chill, come on Jorge, lets go to the ATM”

“Lets go my friend, you my friend, I take care of you like I take care my own ass, you lickey family.”

Jorge knew everyone on the street. He walked fast, Adam had to almost run to keep up. He was hollering and whistling at people, they smirked, or waved or shook their heads at him. He never stopped talking, he was turning around to talk as Adam struggled to keep up. He had enormous energy for a small fat guy. “I tour guide, I help gringo’s, show them around, but not too many gringo’s these days.”

Adam was almost running “They say is a killing zone down here, looks pretty calm to me.”
“It ok, you just stick with me my friend, anyone ask you, you say you with me, I take care of you, I know everyone even big bosses, you know someone, its ok. Fighting is between other families, not us, we ok, I know everybody. This neighborhood, it ok, no fighting for it. Some barrios they fight for, not this one, border guard’s work for bosses too, they have big guns, so this neighborhood ok. You like to go up, I heard you say, here, 20 pesos.” He showed Adam a small pink pill, Adam knew exactly what it was and snatched it out of his hand and dry swallowed it .

“Fuck yea, college kids need to stay awake and so do i, you got any more of that, shit we don’t need nothing else if you got Addies, we can get a nice buzz on them and drink.”

Jorge grimaced “No, certain things only some sell, not that, that one for me. I don’t have more. Only some people, go through Jesus for that, he works for bosses, he owns two bars you know, bosses lend money and he sell for them. I show you something else. This special place.”
Adam remained silent until they reached the ATM, which was guarded by a man with a machine gun. He made a withdraw and handed Jorge what he thought was 2 dollars but was actually 20. When he realized it, it didn’t matter. He had given more to street people in the US. Easy come, easy go.

Jorge pocket the bill, “You good friend, I take you where I take all good friends, you good man, I can tell, follow me, you no bad person.”

After more twists and turns down the narrow cobble stoned streets, flanked by waving and scowling people alike, the arrived at “the bodega”. It was a two story building with all the windows and doors open, fans blowing, under what looked to be a thatched roof, painted bright colors, paintings of tropical scenes on the wall and a large bird of paradise squawking perched on a bamboo “T” with a little chain on his leg. Adam thought it was beautiful perfect creature of god or nature or both, chained for our amusement. In all the corners, large hibiscus red, pink and bright yellow. A sweet floral smell. A large aquarium with more perfect creatures snatched from the warm sea.

Jorge went to fix himself a drink at a fully stocked bar. “You good man, I only bring good men here, you know, ones that know how to act, no crazy’s, you know, some people crazy, too ruff, I know you ok, you no ruff man, and you generous.”

All around, young ladies were laying in various states of repose, stretched out over lush looking couches and chairs, some looked sleepy or maybe high, all looked bored, eight lovely women, scantily dressed in what might have been beach wear had a beach been close, white cotton dresses, bikini tops, floral patterned wraps, smoking, drinking, looking, stretching, yawning. All smiled up at Adam, and he stood frozen, trying to smile, to look casual. He was getting the idea and needed a drink badly. “oh shit” he thought “what a trip”. Adam half expected to see the Paul Gogan stroll down the stairs with a hard on.
Jorge came over with rum and coke, “Relax friend, sit, drink, relax, you get to know my friends”

Adam smiled at the girls, shook hands, “Jorge has a lot of friends” they just smiled coyly and nodded, on his left, one lady sat up, started to put on some sweet smelling lotion. Jorge walked over to her, said something in Spanish, she looked over at Adam, motioned, held out the bottle of lotion.

“You OK, friend, its calm here, come over here, she want help putting lotion on back, you good guy, I take care of you, see, you no a gay huh? Come help my friend”

Adam automatically began to move to sit beside her on the couch. An older man came in, with some white in his hair, dressed in a white cotton button up shirt and nicely creased jeans. Two of the women got up and went over to him, kissing him on both sides of the cheek. He said something to Jorge looking at Adam. Jorge replied. One of the man’s companions had some sort of wrap around dress on, which she took off, exposing bright small bikini bottoms, folded it, laid on a couch, walked, no, moved, over to the bar, fixed three drinks. She moved very slowly and it smelled like flowers in the room. She walked back to the man with the drinks on a tray, handed him something which he slipped in his pocket, looked pleased, told Jorge something in Spanish looking at Adam. Jorge replied laughing. Adam thought he heard something about potatoes and baby’s and gringos, they both laughed. Adam felt like a child that did not get the jokes grown-ups were telling. The man gave the other girl a bill. She smiled and kissed him on the lips. The man winked at Adam, and walked out.

Jorge pressed “put on the lotion, she like you, don’t be rude”
.
Adam began putting on the lotion without thinking. Sliding hands over smooth dark skin. Black hair pulled up over the neck, curls. Gliding gliding. The smell of coconut. She reached around and unclasped her top. Adam rubbed the lotion on her shoulders arms, neck, traced the ridge of her ear, she turned around, “on front too” she said. Weightless. That feeling in the lower stomach, heat spreading slowly down, stirring. Jorge grinning. All the lady’s watching. Our hearts are birds too, he thought. Birds of paradise, perfectly made, but chained. Our hearts have been chained but need to fly. Lotion on her shoulders, both hands moving toward her breasts. The warm stirring, spreading terseness. Adam stood up quickly, looked at Jorge, “Grab a beer and lets go back to the bar.”

Jorge looked a little displeased, shocked. “You ok? You relax, relax, it ok, everything ok, she like you.” The lady looked a little put out, told something to Jorge, made a huffing sound and started putting her top back on. “You want to go see boys?”

“No, no, uh… this is great, just fine, I just uh, I need to keep an eye on Mike, you know, he’s still back there, you know, we’ll come back”
.
The grin returned, “It’s ok my friend, the beers on me, we go now, maybe come back, you want Viagra, I get it for you.”

Adam felt something like shame and something like hotness in his belly. “Ok, yea, maybe so, lets just come back later”

Jorge led the way back, talking to everyone on the street, some laughing, some grimacing, some yelling obscenities.

At the bar now there was music. Everyone was dancing and the delivery was made. Adam asked Jesus where Hank was and the bar-back came and took them out back. There was a small court yard, and a stair case. Upstairs an open air room, windows knocked out, like a covered landing. In the back more rooms.

Hank was hunkered over a large line of coke. When he looked up he reached in his pocket and threw a small back of coke on the table. A large quarter gram, two or three fat lines. Just enough. Good. See that the bar-back is tipped he thought. 10 dollars for a fat quarter gram, amazing. He went to go get Mike. Standing outside on the landing Adam looked down to watch Mike and Jorge arguing. Jorge had tried to rip him off. Jorge was explaining to Mike that they were the best of friends, family even and that he would never do such a thing.
Mick came up in a huff, “That little prick tried to rip me off.”

Adam was putting drops of water down his nose, the burning was exquisite “He’s ok , he’s just trying to make a buck, feed his family, just like everyone here. Everyone’s hustling. Did you see how many prostitutes were on the street, that’s good money for them.”
Mick was looking at Hank with a look of disgust. “No he’s not ok, he’s a street pimp, you hear him talking shit and you believe him, he’s a slime bag, sound to me like he’s a common hustler like any other, I’m tellin you he tried to get me for 20 dollars.”

Hank broke in, “You got to tip these guys well or they just try and steal it from you, you make too much noise, you might get more than a couple of valium. They all work for the same folks. What took you so long Adam? I was thinkin maybe they had you strug up with your little nuts cut out, and I was gonna have to do your QG. No sense letting good yayo go to waste.”

“We went by the bodega.”

Hank was looking cautiously at Mick “He take you to the bodega huh, you meet Consuela, she’s so sexy, you outta get you some of that, she gets firsts shot at white guys, always a pecking order you know, that’s good stuff, not that affectionate you know, but good, prime good grade A, when I’m on the road, you know, driving my truck, all I get is lot lizards, you know, lick sticking your dick in a glass of hot water, those girls, there young you know they are not so stretched out. But not down here, down here, you got a few hundred green-backs to throw around, shit, you a king, not like in the stantes. In the stated a couple hundred don’t get much attention, but down here you are a VIP with that sort of dough. You just have to tip everybody, and I mean everybody. That’s why it’s best to make sure you only deal with a few guys. This is how they live you know, fine by me. Suits me just fine.”
Mick looked like he was getting ready to kill someone. He was opening and closing his fists. Adam was feeling worried “naw man, that’s some sad shit, you know, that’s fucked up, but anyway fuck that dude, he coulda’ asked me for the money.”

Adam agreed “I can’t believe there’s that much prostitution on the street, some of those girls looked so young, that fucked up, and all us gringo down here to bear up the white man’s burden I recon.”

Hank was holding a lighter under a spoon that held a mixture of coke and water. “Shit, girls that hot, I mean at the bodega, can always find other work, you know, it’s just way better money to lie on your back a few days a week. It’s not any differnt in any major European city. I been all around, and Europe is just about the same, this is their red light district you know, but only after dark. In Europe it’s more segregated, that all. In the bodega the girls have to pay the house some, but you know who runs the house, and I’ll tell you, the house takes care of its own, they run this whole neighborhood, those girls could get jobs as waitresses or wiping tables, or get married to one of the gang guys, which they will probly end up doing anyhow, but shit, id do it, wouldn’t you, a couple hundred a night, shit, I might let you stick it to me for a hundred a night.”
“I bet those girls are beat up and everything elese.”

“Let me tell you something, you hit one of those girls, and you are in big trouble. The windows are open in the rooms upstairs too. There is a balcony, but they windows have screens on them so you can’t go outside. Dudes sit outheir and listen to them fuck, just to make sure the job is done and there is no ruff stuff. This an’t Juarez. That’s a whole nother pile of shit I’ll tell ya. Down here no one is a “free agent” everyone works at the pleasure of the house, and the house protects it’s own. I figure, it usta be like that in America, before organized crime was busted up.”

Adam thought of Hank working away at some poor young woman in some hot smelly room, heaving and huffing, his sweat and slobber dripping on her, red faced, obscene blotted belly, grunting, her turning her face away, what was she thinking about? Birds in the blue sky? Her small frame limp and docile under his great pounding weight, his stench, his bulbous cock like a fat and dirty slug, did he wear a condom, did he cum inside her, what must she be thinking about, her child, her family, the money…the money…the money, but her heart a bird.”
Mike looked ready to commit murder “you stupid fat piece of shit, what do you think your doing, you can’t free-base that, you dog, go drive your truck into a ravine.” He stomped down passing Jorge as he came up. HE mounted the landing.

“Adam, Consuela and her friends are here, you my friend, I take care of you, come on down, have fun, dance, we all dance…”

Hank licked his lips. “you better get your friend outa’ here before he gets himself killed. Come back if you ditch him and we can get nice and fucked up. I mean that. I got some business to take care of.”

As Adam and Mick hailed a cab, he thought he heard the sound of geese calling, way up.

t

t

Fire Sermon 1

Fire Sermon

She kept talking about scoring coke and Adam’s resolve was slowly weakening. He was thinking about Steven King’s description of the water-wagon in “The Shinning”, how great it looked passing you when you were standing on the ground, and how shitty it was once you hopped on and took a ride.

“Exactly” he said aloud.

“Exactly what” she looked at him quizzically.

“Nothing, god I wanta’ drink!”

“No, you know how you get when you drink, plus you have to drive.”

“Drive where”?

“Let’s get some coke, common…I won’t get that much, a half gram, I can do one and you can do one.”

“If I snort a quater gram of coke it’s on, I’m gonna HAVE TO drink to help with the come down, and I’m trying so fucking hard to stay sober, I shouldn’t even be here.”

“Fine”, she looked away disappointed.

Adam sat at the table and thought how much this scene sucked, how stupid and dingy the bar looked, how bad the music was, how banal the game of pool was, how beastly most of the patrons seemed, the garish lights, all of it was disgusting him because he was sweating a drink. However, he remembered many times getting drunk at this very same bar and loving it. The same place that seemed absolutely vile when sober became a glittering hideaway when drunk. Alcohol was a magic potion, he thought; just add to a glum life and “POOF”, instant excitement.

They sat in silence not looking at each other. She kept checking her phone. Suddenly, “Shit I forgot my smokes, Ima’ run to the car and get them.” She started to get up still looking at her phone.

“OK” vaguely Adam knew that she would score.

“My car’s locked”, he threw her the keys.

When she was gone Adam stared at the beer bottle she left. He looked over at the bar. How beautiful the many colored bottles, lit from underneath. A sparkling door to Shangri-La. He wanted to fall though the door. He wanted to be Alice and tumble down the rabbit hole.
Adam thought, “They say you can’t smell Vodka on the breadth, I wonder if that’s true.”
The pressure was mounting, like a balloon in his guts being blown and blown and blown.
“POP” he yelled. The frat boys looked over from their game of pool as he was getting up. Standing at the bar, rubbing shoulders with some slobbering guy yelling about Lady GaGa to her date, he felt as though his entire body was vibrating. He could taste the shot. The bartender walked over and smiled “Adam, about time you had a drink, did your mom die today”?

“Huh”

“Nothing, what will it be”

“Give me a double shot of vodka and a beer”

“My man” she smiled and turned to grab the glass and pour the drink. The glass was a cut diamond. He sucked it down as fast as he could. Then he sucked down the beer in a few gulps. HE could feel the knot quickly unraveling in his gut. The tightness was dissipating. The warmth of the first drink was delicious. He saw through the window she was coming back. He hollered at the bar tender to bring him another shot of vodka “and make it fast, I have to drink before my date comes back”

The bartender smiled and gave him the second shot. He drank it, payed, and began walking back to the table. He got half way there, turned around, got a beer and returned to the table. When he did she was sitting there.

She seemed more alive “I thought you were not going to drink”

He noticed a small drip of translucent snot dripping from one nostril. “Ahh… fuck it.”
She lit a cigarette and shrugged. She was tapping both feet, which shook the table slightly. She spoke quickly. “know what I want to do”?

He finished his beer. Suddenly the night was full of possibilities. “Oh do tell”
“I want to go to a strip club”

Adam thought of the last time he went to a male strip club. His date enjoyed it immensely, but Adam thought it boring.

“I’m not really feeling that, I don’t have the money anyway”.

She leaned close over the table; “you know those women are amazing, you know you want to, I’ll pay, it’ll be fun.”

Adam didn’t see that coming. He didn’t mind seeing naked dudes because on a visceral level he didn’t feel that they were exploited. On a rational level he knew otherwise, but in the guts he didn’t feel it. It just seemed a little silly and vulgar, but he really didn’t care much one way or another. When he thought about female strip clubs however, it produced a totally different sensation. In that case, every moral and political nerve sent a clear message to his hormone addled brain that screamed EXPLOTATION! His visceral half however was not as noble, but he thought it a bad idea regardless.

He looked sharply at her “Those girls are exploited, you know that”.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call them girls. Besides, you remember where I teach, or do you just not care? Don’t tell me about the patriarchy, I promise I’m better versed than you. Did you know I used to be a stripper and it mostly paid for my undergrad life? A lot of my very close lady friends and students have been too. You remember Stacy, Scott’s girl-friend? I bet you didn’t know she paid for her masters largely by stripping.” She laughed. “She wrote her thesis on the sex/power matrix, because she knew how to flip a script.

Adam felt overwhelmed by her tone, her easy dismissal of his approach. He was watching her closely. He felt his blood getting hot. He was trying to consider how to respond without ruining the whole night. He didn’t know quite how to handle this. “You’re welcome for that phrase”.

She finished her beer, snorted and smiled a bit contemptuously and relaxed a bit, “and frankly I don’t think you’re as interested as you try to be, Come on….. you’re not impressing me, so give it a rest for god’s sake. I love strip clubs and so do you, and here’s the rub….. lots of the women love dancing and watching the other dancers. I mean to say for the dancers it’s not just the money, that’s part of it, but they consider themselves artists. You don’t understand the whole routine and the roles and the play-dance of the routine. It’s actually quite subversive. Lots of women and dancers party at the clubs and enjoy watching each other dance on their nights off. They are actually performers and athletes and artists all wrapped into one. Anyway strip clubs are a blow to the patriarchy and to puritan repressive morals. See, it’s all about assuming roles that are actually the reverse of those promoted by patriarchy, although they might not at first appear so. Strip clubs can be the site of erotic and social resistance, of freedom and the deconstruction of bullshit “universal” values and taboos. The dominant values are easily disclosed in strip clubs, transvalued, reversed, and thus for that moment neutralized. The parameters of what you perceive as delaminating the “normal” or “capitalist” patriarchal paradigmatic boundaries are actually transgressed. The dancers are the most powerful players, and the men know that very well. The men submit and they know they are submitting. Not to mention getting naked is inherently pleasurable for most people. Pleasure for the dancer because she is free to get naked, and the men you must remember are not. The dancer always calls the shots. Most of the men actually accept it and enjoy it, because they can relinquish the phony illusion of control they try so hard to hang on to in other social interactions. They enjoy the power being held over them, the men enjoy being subjected to this power. The women assume the confident role and they can grant or withhold pleasure as they see fit, they can move forward with the act or walk away. Get a lap dance and act like a jerk and see what happens. At that point you are totally under their control. Plus in strip clubs women can looked at each other in public and not be ashamed. Where else can we do that? Women can see each other, and see men seeing them, and the men cannot say a damn thing. It’s just as much a place for women to express their sexuality as for men, to assume roles that are opposite the traditional ones. Whatever, we can go to a male strip club but I’m not that into that. Those dudes are mostly Neanderthals. Let’s go watch women. I might know some of the ladies there tonight. Besides, you go to those godamned burlesque shows don’t you, what the hells the difference? Just like most of the other dancers, the girls in the burlesque shows like it, they enjoy it, the fact that they are getting paid, is that suppose to change anything? We’ll have a blast. Besides, your little protests are almost irrelevant anyway, we both know that. ”

Adam felt his face turn hot. He felt like she was attacking him and all he was trying to stand for. “The machine gets inside you. That is one essential facet of alienation, you love your own chains, you build your own scaffold but you can’t see what it is. Then you dance up to the rope and hang yourself. You fall in love with your own lack of humanity. There is only one way to flip the script, and it has nothing to do with assuming roles in a narrative. It has to do with smashing the entire way that goods and services are produced and distributed. That is not done with fancy talk. That is not done in the class room or in some bullshit journal. That is done in the streets, and factories, all the rest will follow. Those strippers are not doing that shit for free. They are doing it because economic necessity makes us do things every day, every day, all day, slowly twisting our bodies and souls so that finally we can’t see the truth. We become appendages of the death machine, appendages of the apparatus of control, we help them reproduce the machine and it grows stronger with every precision lath we turn off the conveyor belt. The more we give them the less we have. The more of our life’s energy and work we churn into that bottomless pit the more empty we become. The machine grows and we wither and are shells, working, eating, reproducing, sleeping, and dying. We become the mouth piece for their television and news and sit coms and game shows and we talk and we think we are speaking but we are not. They are speaking us into social being and they will smash us when we are no longer useful. The truth is they are sucking our life and wealth and spirit from us and using that very energy and wealth to kill and rape and smash and plunder all of humanity until there will be nothing left of this planet but a black burnt piece of rock spinning aimlessly through space.” His body was vibrating again. Now he felt like he wanted to break something, or fight, or lash out.

“Well” she leaned back in her chair, “I want to hang out with you tonight, and I promise if you go we will have a fucking blast. You know we will. It’s fucking fun and I know what you like. You didn’t protest when I brought that porn over, that’s for sure. What the hell’s the difference. You’re the least shy sex addict I ever met, and that’s just fine with me, so spare me your performance of Jonathan Edward Castro, how obviously boring and dated. I can’t stand boring self-righteous men. Don’t be ashamed to like what you like. Just know that those women and men are actually revolting against patriarchy and taboo, weather they know it or not. It’s a good thing, not dirty or shameful or oppressive. There is enough shame in the world.”

Her face became disdainful. He remembered how they met, just a month before in a seminar he was taking at college different from his, him new to the graduate school and her almost finished, running into her in the library, and asking what was she was reading. He could see it was Derrida. He had never met anyone who actually tried to negotiate that type of writing. Adam sat and asked a few questions cordially and tried to suggest Marxist answers. She became more animated with every response, he closely watched her gesticulating hands as she first incinerated the corpse of materialism, then those who had already dispensed with so much unsophisticated positivism , hacking to bits the first generation of relativist wizard-gods (who emerged from Saint-Denis blood thirsty with text) with the machetes they sharpened for her. A grand mutiny, deconstructing the deconstructions. She hacked them to pieces with a more advanced relativism. Adam was impressed by her ability to counter everything, tear it all up to pieces, and enjoy launching into the void where everything was potentially false, so anything was possible. To Adam her tirade ended with a vision of her standing in the twilight of all idols, smashed statues and temples and books all around, blood splattered, holding a hammer for the forms, a machete for the formulators. He thought she had to be wrong, but at that moment it didn’t matter, so he asked her out. He was amazed she said yes. But now all that passion had become a weapon. After a month of furious argument and love-making, the flame was beginning to burn through its fuel. Adam could see that was almost completely snuffed. He wanted to calm down but now it was too late.

“I think you are wrong” Adam hoped he could leave it at that because he wanted to enjoy the night with her.

She started to get up. “Well, I’m going to the bathroom; Why don’t you give it a shot. Jeeeezzzz, you guys need to read more Millet or Judith Miller ….Oh what the fuck do you know about female sexuality anyway. Actually, stop reading altogether and just hang out with strippers if you want to know what’s what, and if you want to impress me, post something on Lit Erotica, but spare me all those goddamned sermons. I’ll tell you what patriarchs I find most “alien”, it’s all these goddamned Christians posing as Marxists, or what’s more vulgar and bland, fooling themselves into believing that there was any difference in the first place. Your Marx looks just like the ol’ dictator father Jehovah full of truth and universal justice. I wonder what profit He will reveal the truth to next, what sacred text you will enshrine in a generation or two. Just another metaphysic for you to get wrapped up in for your ego’s sake, like little children scared of the dark. She smiled and paused “you trip me out”…and began laughing, leaning far back in her chair, looking at the celling, mockingly laughing.

Adam suddenly felt sick, like a terrible mistake had been made. He stood and looked straight at her, straight into her green eyes. Adam wanted to explode, but he spoke very low and moved close so she could hear clearly. He knew their short tryst was over.

“You are a tool too but you’re too smart to see it. But no matter, because you’re the last of the burnouts. Your line I mean. After you, the deluge. Don’t expect another wave of highly evolved nihilism. After you, no more reverse hermeneutics. It won’t be long before the truth begins to reveal its self, to undress, for all the image and shadow that cloths the world to unravel piece by piece, slowly at first, then with quickening pace, and all that smart talk won’t mean shit. Let me be very clear, I want you to listen to this, I want you to remember this when we are strangers. Time is coming when you will have to make a choice. A very clear choice. Dig? Time is coming when you will have to do things that are unsavory and harsh or you will likely die. Do you hear that? Time is coming when they will drag you out of your fancy office for speaking out, if you have the clarity and guts to do so, and your hen pecked lackey colleagues will pretend they didn’t see anything. They will remain silent like rabbits and cower in their holes, desperately trying to hang onto a semblance of security and selling their souls in the process, or they will fight to be free. It might be next year, ten years, or forty but I think you will see it, or at least the beginning of it. Yea, I can play the profit anytime I like. Fuck it, fuck what you think. People sneer at me and mine every day, they laugh and dismiss and try to ignore us. But time is when they will remember us, and they will no longer be able to ignore us, as the fires begin to burn closer and they start to feel the heat.”

She yelled at him as he walked out. “I hope you get what you really want, which your head presented to the governor on a silver plate. You are a preaching patchwork boy made up mostly of self-hate. I’ll let you do the repentance for both of us.”

He walked out shaking visibly and wanted badly to get drunk or smash or fight or perhaps just disappear completely into the cool moonless night so that all contradictions were finally resolved.

What your lips said

What you lips said

your lips said
JUST A FEW TIMES
so I pushed

fool that i am

your lips said to me
MORE
in the soundless language
of pressing kisses

so i pushed
like the fool that i am

your lips said
IM NOT READY

so i pushed hard
fool that I am


your lips swooned
SLOWlY I WILL ARIVE IN TIME
with purrrrs that burnt
into my guts
like hot white
phosphorous

brute that i am
so i pushed

your lips at last said
for the stars to hear
for the gods to hear
for my cat to hear
for everyone to hear
even the fool that i am

GOODBY

Song for Grendel

what steel will fell him
what spell will slow him
what face would face him
what pace out-race him
what peace would cease him

when Grendel climes from his
muddy pit

what clear spirits move him
no wine will sooth him
clear spirits support him
but no wine to comfort him
what spirit shall confront him
how to out-run him

when Grendel crawls from his
watery cave


will time not slow him
nor age show him
who names the devil
that must control him

when Grendel gets
that taste in his throat

Variation on a Theme in Eliot

Variation on a Theme in Eliot

In time and tide all must be swept.
What tears remain that Priam wept?
What corps remains on Flanders' field?
Even Carthage's soil is tilled.

Under the depths green murky light
Countless souls must rest tonight,
In haunted caverns of the deep
The dead must find a restless sleep.


In time and tide all things must fade.
The beauty of youth so soon decayed
A child's steady laughing eyes
So soon are swept to sure demise

In time and tide all things must fade.
All bonds are but a masquerade.
The ties that hold life and heart,
By time and tide are torn apart

Under the waves that sway the moon
Countless men have met their doom
Who remembers sailors, ages past
What god could hear their drowning gasp

What bones does time now wash ashore
Of old and dead with kin no more

No Greater Misfortune

Have you seen the old? The old and alone? There is no greater misofrune.

In the grocery store like Whitman evoked in Ginsburg. Trembling hands reaching out for fresh spring fruit. Sagging, shuffling through the meat killed red blooded. Cloudy eyes they live with cats. Alone. Except for the evening news and Opera. Kids done flew, spouse dead, fumbling toward death. Tumor head black mass brain. Preparing for bed in the etherized evening shadow light. Blast through walls. Light. Dripping etherized. One day, fingers like claws razor toed. One day, lock you away, talk to yourself like Ajax shell-shocked by too many years.