My guts strung out

You Speak

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 04:58:21 GMT

We were birds just North-East on the fence-line, against the Dakota blue there with the off-coal and white clouds. Ask me and I'd say, they were a bit too blue up there like that reminding me of you_ fresh from a shower and field of flowers laughing. We were high there, about the gold heads of tall grass dancing naked. Giggling at me you smiled and questioned: Tell me, do I fly too? _Well of course silly, you know you do...

The Day Comes Early

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:36:54 GMT

Today, 4:32 AM Insomnia starts the day. Glancing at the clock for the umpteenth time, and three, well maybe five cups of old coffee later, my eyelids open to find ants invading the bathroom. Poison for them, another cup for me, and listening to my honey in bed snoring away, I begin to think about his dreams and wonder if I'm even in them? It would be so easy now, putting on shoes to take the trash out, to envision being tossed aside in that snooze filled slumber-land. A blond, tanned Adonis, flings back his hair and flashes a toothpaste smile, complete with sparkling gleam. The smell of black leather fills the air, and the snore becomes a snort. Can he smell the man's sweat? If so, does his nose move towards it, diving to the pit of love? These visions drive me crazy. Garbage tossed, I bang around in the kitchen, grinding loudly more beans. The last of yesterday's coffee is slammed into the microwave, and fifty seconds later pings, stirring up the empty air. While the gurgling new pot complains about it's day, I drift. Somehow, not really caring about any of this, instead, I sit to write you. Another day in fucking paradise. The old man is still asleep, with me feeling the morning's shit coming on: I type.

Bottoms Up

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 02:17:08 GMT

I ask for the beer, and drink it down_ and another, and another, and another, until... Fishing some quarters from my pocket I place them on the oak, and stumble for the door weaving a nod_ till tomorrow. Half in salute he plunges another glass into sudsy water, to pump vigorously off the scum of this day.

B.

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 21:49:46 GMT

He told her one day after eating lunch, “It’s not a matter of love, I don’t even like you anymore.” Passing a brush through her bushy red hair, she looked from the ceiling, to him. He felt a pain. He’d not seen the flash of her blue eyes_ that kind of blue, for very long time, and it hurt. It hurt wrong. His left arm numbed. He touched his right hand to his chest, and sank to his knees in agony. “Yeah honey…,” she mused, after the coroner left, “but I’ll be the one collecting the checks.”

An Old Melon

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 07:21:40 GMT

Sunk on the table an old melon draws gnats with its heady putrefying scent. So much like you melodramatically flopped, accenting my sofa- Sloshed and complimenting with an assured seriousness, your martini’s olive.

God's Mountain

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 16:08:10 GMT

Once lived two boys, Omar and Hassain, in a village at the foot of a great mountain. Passing by it one day, the notion to climb passed through their heads. It was said by elders in the village to be a mountain of God, and in climbing to its top one could hear his voice; and so the two set out. It wasn’t long when the littler of the two, Hassain, grew weary. His small legs trembled. Having rested several times, it was decided between them to return some day when he was a bit older and stronger. Omar, seeing that Hassain felt shamed in his weakness reassured him saying, “Have faith my brother, we shall get there some day.” And so they went down. Having grown to young men, they once again found themselves at the mountain’s base gazing upwards. Without words, both started up its slope. Crossing the place they’d stopped years earlier, a smile passed between them. Onward they climbed. Half way up however, Omar’s shoe picked up a stone. Not wanting to stop, he traveled a little further before sitting to remove it. His foot was bruised badly, but rising once again he joined Hassain in their assent. Hassain could see Omar limping, and eventually his struggle to keep up. “Omar,” he said, “that foot of yours cannot hold out, we must go back.” Omar, who had not wanted his friend to see his plight, felt grateful that he had, and agreed. “I hope someday in the future we may return to finish what we have started,” Hassain told Omar when they returned to the village. It was a couple years later that a family with a beautiful daughter moved into their village. Hassain confessed in confidence to Omar his desire and wish to marry the young women, but Omar too desired her. Without comment, Omar went quickly about arranging to marry the girl. When word passed that the lucky couple was indeed to be married, a rift occurred between the two young men. Hassain, who felt Omar had stolen her from him, did not attend the wedding and refused to speak to his friend. Time passed. Hassain, who himself had eventually married, moved from the village to raise sheep in the nearby hills. Years turned to decades, families were raised, and flowers bloomed and died in their pots. One day, Hassain going into the village for supplies, encountered his old friend at the foot of the mountain. They both looked at its top and began climbing. Their old quarrel soon dwindled, defused by time and climbing. Quietly they began to speak of children and wives, and the sorrows and joys life had given. Up they went, not noticing the gathering clouds. A storm descended upon them before they were aware of it, nevertheless they continued. Omar, who was without a coat soon became chilled. Hearing the chattering teeth in Omar’s mouth, Hassain took his coat and threw it over his friend’s shoulders. Omar felt grateful, yet also guilty that his friend should now suffer the weather. After a while he returned the coat saying, “Thank you my friend, I feel much better now, you take this.” Thus sharing the warmth of coat and conversation they eventually stood at the mountain's peak. Silent understanding then passed and smiles radiated from both men. The storm ceded and warmth filled the air. Looking out under the blue sky they indeed heard the voice of God, though he had not spoken a word. Looking out, they saw all of God’s land. Some say that they did not return, but froze to death when the great storm again dropped down on their old gray heads. I say this is nonsense. For I ask you my friend, if not from them, from where did these words and this story come, a mountain?

a Ripening

lutesaroundtown — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 03:20:08 GMT

The purple fuzzy pile purred at me as I walked by. Good Lord, did one wink as well? “Sweet, delicious fruit, fresh and juicy, the best that money can buy!” The squat round-faced man behind the counter hadn’t answered my question. “Yes, but what are they?” I repeated a second time. “They’re unlike anything else,” he continued eagerly unabated. “Filled with all the wonders and goodness one could ever desire in a fruit, but so indescribably delicate and evasive to the palate. Come, come Miss please, wouldn’t you like to sample them?” he enticed, passionately plucking one of the now blue luminescent orbs from a small mound. He held it up in front of my face, close to my nose. I unconsciously closed my eyes, inhaling deeply and gasped. Its alluring sweet aroma filled the air, reminiscent of the most beautiful smells known to me. Moving from the darkest of rich chocolates, cotton candy, and bitter coffee the air mingled with the smell of roasted pork and just as quickly changed to the heady perfume of flowers. Magnolias, carnations, roses, and gardenias all made their rounds before the unfolding dragon tulips hit me. My senses reeled ‘round pummeled into confusion. Unconsciously I drooled down the front of my blouse. In wonder I looked on. It had turned a blushing tangerine color and flattened to a disc in his hand then just as quickly it elongated and turned to a deep scarlet as he tore it open with his fingers. A squeak! A groan! And oddly enough, I could have sworn I heard a faint seductive whispering emanate just before his tug at the flesh. Just a single word, said suggestively licking and tickling the inner ear, “Ripe!” Yes, indeed, without question I knew it was. Handing me half of a now swollen pink and green striped bulbous shaped flesh, I noted the scent had not stopped fermenting its chameleon march onward. Much like an orange blossom one second, it oozed of new leather the next. Placing a cautious tongue on the cut side I was shocked at how cool it instantly made me feel yet all the while hot, spicy and warm shutters ran the length of my spine. As I suckled its flesh I caught the scent of caramel, I realized too that the taste, subtle at first, now changed as rapidly in flavor as it had in appearance and scent. All my favorite foods instantly came to mind and yet it was quite unlike anything I’d ever eaten before. Ice cream and candy, roast beef and gravy, vanilla custard and blueberry pie assailed my thoughts. But no, it was more than that, it was, well, as the gentleman said, “unlike anything else.” Buttered and garlic potatoes, well peppered pork, fresh toast and honey, rich cheesecake. With my head swimming, unable to subdue the palette of my palate I gasped spurting breathlessly, “How much a pound?” “Pound?” He queried. “Yes, tell me, how much?” I said spitting out the words. Scratching his ruddy balding head he gazed distantly, “They are so rare I’m afraid they are sold individually, and they are unfortunately, quite expensive.” After quoting me an outrageous sum, the ominous privilege of being given the half piece as a sample took me aback. Still, undeterred, I readily and gratefully gave him the credits he asked, and left clutching tightly at my breast the small precious bag of the fruit. Originally I had planned to take them home and split them with my husband, but as I drove along, the ever-changing smells overpowered me. Pulling over and parking my car, I greedily reached into the bag and pulled one of the delectable fruit out. It was by this time shaped like a soft, spongy square and covered with willowy white scales. As it neared my lips, I one again heard it emanate the word “ripe”. Kidney shaped, lavender colored and smelling of spiced vanilla beans, I shoved it into my mouth whole. Without chewing, only sucking upon the ripeness I felt myself whisked away to mysterious wonders previously unknown in my life. The best sex paled in comparison. I felt I was drowned in a deluge of sensory overload. My tongue, mouths, throat and body buzzed at the abundance. I had never felt so alive. Aesthetically pleasured beyond passion, mere words fail in application. Not recalling the drive home or crawling into bed, numb from the experience, I was barely aware of my husband’s arrival from work. When asked if I was feeling well, I just rolled over and groaned. He dropped his briefcase by the bed and nibbled on my neck telling me I smelled exquisite. Remembering the bag I’d placed on the nightstand next to me, I pulled a velvety ruby triangle from hiding and licked it. Bubbling into a heart shape I heard my husband gasp when the scent from the now midnight black fruit hit his nose. Smashing it with my teeth I pulled his head towards mine and started slowly chewing and sucking while my husband did the same. Whimpering and crying with joy, he joined in the orgy of pleasure that had been mine throughout the day. Did we have sex then? I don’t recall. Nor do I remember eating the rest of the bag, but the next morning we woke late and it was empty, so we must have. Upon seeing the bag my husband turned to me with a questioning look. Instead of asking 'if' about the empty bag he asked me where I got the fruit and would I’d go back and get some more. Indeed the thought had struck me too. I told him of their high price. He readily agreed- at any cost, and got ready for work while I went to make coffee and breakfast. He was getting out of the shower as the coffee finished dripping. It smelled good, but something wasn’t right. Pouring a mug for each of us, he read my mind taking the first sip. “What’s wrong with the coffee?” “Yeah, I noticed something smelled funny when it was brewing. Maybe the beans are old. I’ll be sure and stop for a new bag on the way back from the market,” I said following his lead dumping the cup down the drain. “Yuck!” Turning to his breakfast he fidgeted moving cut up pieces of egg around the plate. Crumbled bacon, toast and jam likewise went unattended. He didn't touch the fresh orange juice. Grabbing the morning paper, he mumbled about eating later. With that I kissed him, sending him on his way. I likewise had no appetite. Shoving the whole of my breakfast down the disposal, the notion of still being full from the prior night gave way to the craving. Tossing on jeans and one of my husbands sweat tops, fishing for car keys- 'did I lock up?' I sped to farmer's market ignoring half the traffic laws. Panic set it when the vendor wasn't readily found. My heart rioted in my ears by the time I found him. Only a few of the amazing fruit remained on the table. 'Were they singing?' Buckling inside at the scent, saliva went directly to a sleeve without regards to appearance. “Are these all you have?” I puffed out breathlessly. “Yes, I'm afraid so, and, unfortunately the price has risen accordingly.” “How much” I felt myself swoon as he spoke, not really hearing his answer. “Oh never mind,” I barked impatiently at him, “I'll take them.” A smile of recognition crossed his face- someone who knew? Taking my credits, almost all we had remaining for the year, he placed them gently in the bag and into my hands warning, “Be sure to eat them today, they'll be overripe and rotten by tomorrow.” Eagerly I urged, “When will you get more?” The man now looked almost piteous. “They are only in season once every seventeen years...” he said to my retreating figure, shrinking, overwhelmed at the notion. At home, the bag sat on the counter. It now screamed continually, “Ripe, Ripe, Ripe.” The once subtle scent overwhelmed the apartment. I could wait no longer. Shoving them in my mouth one after the other, I could neither discern scent, color, texture or taste. It was only after sucking the remaining juice from my fingers and hands that I succumbed. A deep, devastating remorse set in. Sobbing for what must have been hours, I later heard the keys and door open. The distant voice of my husband asked what was wrong. A strangling sadness darkened our bed, wrenching at my insides while I confessed all. His face paled. In an attempt to soothe, he whispered sweetly (words?) kissing my salty tears. Emotions drained out while holding each other and an unsettling bitterness nestled in darkening our lives, making itself comfortably at home while wedged constant and ever changing between us.

We regret to inform you…

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 03:59:09 GMT

“Tom! Hey Tom, where’d you put the gun?” I heard Jeffee call from out back. Bein’ a lazy butt Saturday mornin’ I only want to roll over and stuff the pillow up my ears. But friends are friends right? I shouted from where I was laid out, “Where you left it ya big doofus!” “And where’s that?” he yelled back. I stretched looking up at the yellow-brown, rain stained, ceiling. “Well, why don't you go check up in the fort.” Rusted boards nailed two years back squawked as he climbed up the old oak, ten feet from the window, up to the tree house we’d built. From where I lay I imagined I could hear catfish talking in the river. From where I lay I see the empty bed of my brother Jim, gone. “Hey Tom, we still got some live night-crawlers?” Moments later after a few pops of zinging Bee Bee's, Jeffee called back, “Yeah, but they’re kinda slow now. Hey, ya wanna go drown ‘em an see we can catch a few?” “Yeah, you?” “Do do that voodoo that you do so well” sang Jeffee back at me then starting to whistle the star spangled banner off tune, punctuating the high notes with the gun_ pop, ping, pop, ping, pop, ping, pummeling the rotted out 'private' sign hanging on the fence. Heaving myself up I quickly dressed, washed my face, peeling a bit dead skin off last week’s sunburn, leaving a bright pink sore mark on my nose. After feeding Jim's goldfish and feeling slightly guilty over not cleaning its bowl, I tried to fix my sleep mussed hair into place- pointless no matter how much gel. I tossed the comb aside. Grabbing an apple in the kitchen, pushing the screen door aside for a fly or two going out, I stepped out and stretched again facing the day. It was a damp warm day. Standing on the porch for a few minutes to get my bearings on the morning, I couldn’t help but think of Jim leaving last year. Casting a tall proud shadow just a bit larger than life, he shoved the bill of my cap down over my face. “See ya ‘round squirt. You be good to ma while I’m gone and don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Eyes still covered I knew he winked like he always did when bein’ big brother. Pushing the cap back I mumbled “Sure thing” and poked him in the ribs while he bear hugged me. It seemed unreal him pushing back then, slinging the duffel bag on his shoulder and walking off to war. I couldn’t tell you why I cried then. I was proud of him and I suppose a bit jealous as well, but I wasn’t no sissy. Jeffee was lookin’ funny at me as he walked up. “You moping on again? C’mon, you know Jim's goin’a teach ‘em. They shoulda’ known not to mess with the U.S. of A. with guys like him around. ‘Sides, he can pick a sparrow off a flagpole blindfold.” “I know,” I sighed, “you got the worms?” “Do I got worms the man asks, do I got the worms?” knuckle punching my arm, Jeffee ran on ahead calling back at me, “I’ll have a stringer full before you get there!” Tossing the apple core at his running behind, with pole and the tackle box in hand I shot out after him. He could have been my twin, ‘sept he had a mop of red curls instead of an unruly yellow top, and a purple black shiner from a run in with a local bully last week that just ‘bout shut his right eye. Bare foot and in coveralls we set out walking the mile and a half to the river. It’s funny how much noise can pass between to boys not saying a thing on a country road and how much that really means. Occasionally picking up and tossing stones, or kicking them out in front, till they flip off to the side of the road and laziness to lay any toe-claim prevailed. Halfway there, I went silent with the passing of the telegram man peddling his bike in the opposite direction. Sure, it coulda’ meant anything, but for me, it meant one, only one. I thought painfully back to Jim and how a couple years before the war the girls and his preoccupation with them came along to steal him. He hardly time for me then, except when he needed help detailing his red Chevy for a date. “Lotsa folks live out here,” Jeffee said reassuring, momentarily breaking empty space between the calling swamp birds. I buried myself deeper into dark thoughts and walked on, not wanting to talk about it. “It could be anything right?” Guts knotted up, like the mass of worms twisting ‘round a hook and a ripple went through my hide. Frogs ker-plunked themselves down to safety when we reached the sluggish muddy water. “I need a new hook.” “Help yourself” I mumbled, baited, cork set I tossed , sinking myself in too. The pole woke me seconds later. “Dang, you got one already,” he said in awe as I pulled up a catfish pushing the low end of four pounds. Memories of Jim showing me how to hold a catfish, without getting stabbed by its dorsal fin, flickered and went out. Putting the fish on the stringer, I reached for the worm can. Once more I was awakened from my trance by the tugging. I repeated the process from time to time as the afternoon wore on. Stagnant water stank and the bobber was forever going down. Jeffee talked his small talk to my muted silence till finally it was late. We walked fast the way back, our arms aching from the catch. Lightning bugs raced frenetically before us all the way leaving their trails of life in the growing darkness. Jeffee must have called goodnight to me, leaving me to stumble numbly the last couple blocks. Why he left me alone just then when I thought I needed him most I'd only half guess at later on. Mom home from work, still in her waitress apron, sat stone faced sunk at the kitchen table. Open in front of her, flattened out was a rumpled yellow telegram. I could see the five words I'd expected and feared most written across its top. “Ah honey- Tom,” her voice trailed, “it's Jim...” Going to the sink I skinned the still flopping fish; if they croaked out in protest, I didn't notice.

Into a Night

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 05:11:35 GMT

Friend, Paul, I need of you a soul lain bare. Since her passing I have made love to my pillow, lonely. When I cry into its folds wondering why God has taken her, a violent shaking occurs within. I wonder at its meaning, and us. Sighing heavy into the dark night, I think about the smells, the wetness of her hair after love, and of what you've left inside. Friend, I knew long of your loving her, and, I approved. Seeing your eyes seep into hers on Christmas day broke my heart. It broke, yet I tied to it the bow uniting you. What a noose 'round my neck then, eh? Yes, but you know all of this, and you knew then of my heart and its wanton ways. Feigning coy your bait, springing then on my needs, you charmed all sensibilities. You tried to protect her, laying low to that mere animal urge, testing the water much like we in the past tested each other. Friend, could you have touched me harder, made love just a little longer, sweat and spilt yourself down within me as she in that moment of passion, or even still, when silently sleeping wrapped round each other drained? Friend, her blood marks not my pillow, but yours. I know of love. Come back to my bed. Weep it into being, embodying that self. Will you not join me in this longing? Please won't you return to this pillow and its stains? * What the fuck John, can’t you even talk man to man? NO, instead I get this crap piece of poetry in the mail waxing on about a roll in the hay. Yeah, I fucked your wife, JOAN. Don’t you even have the balls now to say her name? A horny night of fucking, yeah, you John, you and then Joan. What? You want it again, now that she’s gone? You were a matter of convenience, and Joan a matter of pleasure. Fuck you. Your ‘fucking friend’ and 'pillow fuck', Jack.

The Turning of a Page (December 11, 2008)

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 03:53:43 GMT

Ah, my dear Bettie- brilliant light fades away, how I will miss you.

Each and Every

lutesaroundtown — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 07:39:03 GMT

So late the day, and suddenly tomorrow’s blazed before- a rising sun that bids farewell the moon’s enraptured roar.

End -

lutesaroundtown — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 03:56:30 GMT

Decapitation: Swift blade severs head; there's steam comes from the basket.

Democracy

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 06:51:40 GMT

Cold at this hydrant it smells of politicians, even after words.

Going Away

lutesaroundtown — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 07:15:04 GMT

It started like any other evening with Emily bringing me tea. Cold with lemon and just the right sweet- she handed it to me landing a kiss. She glanced at my blank notebook and yellow pencil silent on the page, questioning nothing. She’d replaced the Bermuda two months ago with Buffalo grass, it bordered on a wilderness that we both tended to like at times, and so I questioned her, “Em, don’t you just love all this green?” Pausing after refilling her jelly jar, she looked around, “Yes, I suppose it isn’t really what I’d intended, but at least it is that.” She frowned looking down in her glass-“It’s that old half empty half full routine. I can and will go ahead and drink, but when I get there, all I can think about is another.” Her eyes pierced and she knew; she knew it was true and that for years I’d been thinking the same things: about grass, about life, and most importantly, us. We’d done pretty well I thought. We raised three kids who weren’t behind bars and actually supported themselves. We followed our own paths while supporting each other’s. Her music and my writings hung there magically fulfilling artistic need. And loathed to admit it, our joke about not having enough lawn to plant the other on was half true. We were rich in life, but our little lawn was small, only enough to mow and not quite enough to put a dog on. A peach tree in the corner of the yard, the mailbox, and the porch on which we sat offered our only shade. The sun was warm, and a light breeze cooling. Looking out she mentioned them first. “Hey, look at that, we have company.” I followed her line of sight and at the end saw a box turtle slowly crawling its way forward in our direction. Her grin proved infectious; we enjoyed nature and here it was making its presence known. My grin was instantly replaced by a question knotting my brow. “Hey, I wonder what the other wants?” From out of an adjacent field another turtle popped out catching our attention. “What the…” her voice trailed. Quietly we watched as a few, then perpetual growing numbers of turtle’ crawl into our yard. In my head, I tried to remember if this was one of the Biblical plagues and I asked her, “Do you think we're both just dreaming? The turtles piled up I mean?” We watched uncomfortably, even though the turtles, at present, contented themselves upon the green. They were a less than khaki view. We kept shooting looks at each new arrival. Finally she gave up and reached for the phone. “C'mon c’mon, pick up,” I heard Em say after several minutes. “Blast it!” she exclaimed as a mosquito voiced, “You have reached the Department of Animal Control, if this is not an emergency, stay on the line, if it is, call 911." Non-stop ringing ensued. Hanging up, she called information. “C'mon, don't you have another number?” “No, nothing other than 911 or 311 extension 2 for animals. She hit it and held a long time. We later thought how amazing the number of creatures actually accrued while we sat, stars rising. Several dozen perhaps? We sat waiting. A voice answers tired, “Yes, what is it?” “It's that we have turtles. They're all over the lawn.” “Where would you want turtles to be?” queried the voice. “But you don't understand,” Emily persisted, “There are dozens and dozens and they keep coming.” “Look Lady, they're turtles and not going to hurt a thing,” “Yes, I suppose you are right, but can't you do something? There are so many,” “I image they'll leave when they're ready,” the voice said flatly, “The best I can do is send someone around when they are in the area.” “Fine and thanks,” Emily said behind tired eyes, then to me, “You know, so much of what we do- we were never forced to do, but don't you think, maybe, it's all been worth it?” “But what about them Em, the kids I mean, don't you think they should know?” She stiffened her back a bit, and stood. After returning from filling the pitcher, and turning on the porch light she filled both of our glasses. “Lemon.” she asked, though knew the answer. “What is it? I asked her pulling my chair closer. “What is it about the green lawn that does it?” She looked with me to the little green left. Piles of turtles had filled in what was ours and started piling on top of each other. Still the walkway, remarkably, was clear for any one wishing to use it. I reached down over the rail, picking up an intruder. “What do you want?” I wavered, “Can't you let us alone?” The face was expressionless as expected. Gray browns and yellows spotted the animal geometrically. It pawed at the air frantically after its initial retreat. Not wanting to unduly alarm the creature, I placed it back near the area I'd retrieved it from. We sat for what must have been hours. Darkness filled the air. The turtles were still gathering. We knew they were, even if we couldn't see them; the occasional scraping of shells, the smell, and their breathing felt. Reaching over Emily took my hand. “We'll be fine. Some day understanding might not seem as important as it does right now. Why worry the kids? That we're together, at least a little longer, that's what counts.” She got up and sat in my lap, bringing her kisses. I cried then, lost in my grief, holding on to her tight, a babe in the woods. I eventually wore down. A cricket stirred in the dark. “Come on then-” she said. My mind told itself to shut down. “But...” I said, peering into the night. “No, no time for that, come on.” Helping me to my feet, Em stared into the darkness. “We'll deal with this like everything else, one day at a time.” Taking me inside, she turned out the light. I knew then that in the morning they'd be gone.

A Good Day

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 14:11:12 GMT

Coyote slings the rat up in the air. It is dead, but coyote still plays. It drops to the ground. Coyote ruffs at it. It stays there and coyote ruffs again. Then coyote whines, cocks his head, sniffs the rat and eats. Licking his lips, coyote runs over to the brush-pile again. Ears perk up_ listen. Nothing that you could ever hear, but coyote does. He hears. Springs coil in his haunches. Coyote leaps high, and wiggles through the ground cover grabbing another rat. In the shadows of a deep canyon coyote dances. Eating again, and after rolling on his dead prey, coyote stretches out. Lazily he glances about to the outlying prairie alert., yawns, and turns back to the brush.

Unhinged

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:12:54 GMT

The baby was crying. She couldn’t go to it. She didn’t have the time. Held at bay, cornered in the kitchen, two young hooligans stood hands up staring down double barrels. Behind Sarah, her twelve-year old son Ryan put the phone receiver on the table. He wiggled his shoulders tight, “She says it’ll be a couple minutes till they get here, but to go ahead and talk, she says, and 'yes' she can hear you.” “Ryan, you take Jenny and see what Charlie wants- Jenny, go with Ryan.” Taking his nine year-old sister’s hand, Ryan hesitated, even knowing 'mother’s uncanny ability' to handle any situation. Sensing his reluctance, Sarah urged him to hurry. “Go on now, I’ll be fine,” she said with a confident voice, though inside her heart hammered out a crazy rhythm. Ryan pulled Jenny out the door. Moments later the crying stopped. From where she stood she heard Ryan’s whine, “Awww mom, he messed himself.” The taller of the two men scratched at his nose and laughed. She raised the shotgun pointing it directly at his gut, then lifted its business end upward. “Keep them up, I can shoot, and will.” Sarah yelled out over her shoulder, “There are extra diapers in the bag. Ryan? Hey, can you manage?” She thought she heard his reluctant ‘yes’ through the tunnel. Fidgeting, the shorter and older of the two darted a look at the back door, its stained glass hummingbird shattered, still open from the break in. “Don’t!” she warned sternly. He looked hard at her, trying to decide if she would shoot. “C’mon lady, let us go before the cops come,” he begged. "You wouldn’t want them kids to see their ma kill someone for nothing now would you?” said the tall man. “Shut up!” Sarah said in an agitated voice. “This is my house, those are my kids and you’ve messed with the wrong woman buster!” He remembered a cornered bear with cubs on a nature show: “Don’t come between them,” had been the advice, and the one he’d opted on a bit too late. Far off they could hear the approaching sirens. She glanced out the window. Before she knew she’d done it, the rifle roared. Instantly the short man halted his move towards what remained of the door. It groaned and fell, unhinged by the blast. At least one of the men lost his bowls and both raised their hands a little higher. Red flashing lights tugged at the night for what seemed and eternity then started dwelling with each passing, sending the flowered curtain pattern dancing throughout the room. Loud knocking at the front door was replaced with the violent knocking of her knees. Finally she lowered her shotgun and the police took over. The two men in handcuffs were escorted out. She sank into a kitchen chair shaking inside and out. The voice buzzed on the table. Picking up the receiver she handed it to an officer who confirmed their arrival and status. Cradling the phone he passes the message: “Margaret says to say ‘well done’ and to ask you if you need a job?” Later, trying to recall those next few moments, it became simply a blur. Kneeling next to her, a young policeman was asking her if she was all right. She nodded and then told her story. Someone handed her coffee; they wrote up reports and gave a phone number to call. Then the tears came. She wanted her children. With brood gathered aside her, she listened to their excited talk. The diaper bag, baby powder, wipes and rolled waste diaper lay beside the blanket. Charlie was on it, kicking his feet up and down giggling in happy gibberish. “Ryan tried, but started gagging, so I did it,” Jenny boasted loudly. “That’s my girl,” she beamed patting Jenny’s head. Ryan looked down ashamed, “I tried honest, but I was too worried about mom,” then added, “awww Jenny, you said you wouldn’t tell any body.” “But mother isn’t just any body,” corrected Jenny. You know?” “You too!” she said to her daughter. Ryan’s pout turned into an embarrassed laughing as she started poking him in his ticklish spots. “And you, you young man! Go throw that away,” she said pointing to the diaper. Picking up her baby and looking at her family, safe, Sarah smiled. “And you Charlie,” she cooed into his cherubic face. Then she cried a bit more.

Accursed Friend

lutesaroundtown — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 13:22:29 GMT

That we share our fleas as old dogs is quite enough, you may keep your worms.

The Prize Inside

lutesaroundtown — Sat, 31 May 2008 17:22:57 GMT

If one could but see, it’s a desolate landscape framed by the wintered Sakhalin forest. We trudge toward our destination at night. There is the hard crunch of cold snow made by feet. A scream, a woman’s scream splits the night, echoing in the dry air. Approaching a hissing gas lamp, see, that yes, indeed there is much snow, snow dirtied by soot and street. Enter into the gray brick building below this dim glow: the hospital. Down long tiled antiseptic corridors and encounter a man pacing. He is looking at each pass, with a worried look, the door we are about to enter. Inside nurses mingle about the bed in white starched uniforms. The Doctor, sweat running down his dark brow, barks orders of encouragement. Another scream shatters our ears. Her eyes are deep, tragic, yet beautiful. She is in labor. The sound of pain fills the room. Hard is proving harder, the baby, stubborn. Hours tick by till the Doctor, taken to humming a familiar march, has had enough and calls for a scalpel. It is to be cesarean. Quickly, gracefully, he works, slicing through the belly of the problem. Blood is everywhere. He holds up a caterwauling babe, a noble story of monarchs, gay parties, and crystalline but troubled lives. Handing it off, he plunges his hands in again, and another joins this cacophony. The tale of a peasant, whose warm fire dwindles to thievery, leading to a wall and inevitable rifle shots. A bit shorter than the first perhaps, it is compact, soaked red, with afterbirth clinging to its pages. This too he passes routinely to waiting hands. “Ah ha!” exclaims the Doctor looking down, “You slippery little devil…” The swinging door shuts. The pacing man stops in his tracks. He looks up at the Doctor who, with hands raised shouts, “Mother Russia is well! Congratulations, three fine strapping boys, hungry for milk, soon to call for their Vodka!” The Doctor tromps away whistling; leaving the father passed out, sunk, overcome with bill in hand. Doctor Anton Pavlovich Chekhov hurries onward; this is not his concern.

Stripped

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 12 May 2008 01:59:36 GMT

I see in myself momentarily mirrored: A pair of naked yearning eyes succumbed to that beautiful self, flawed, indecent of character. Fancy dancing the pinkest groan, ecstatically jumping an honest bone, enwrapped in the most violent of tangos- she tosses the last flower away.

The Hard Road

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 03:23:14 GMT

Tortoise, with nails gray-brown that had toughened each day of his many long lived, till one day he thought of them “My nails are hard; yes, yes they are the toughest ever crawled upon” and so, it was with that thought he set out to challenge life. “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.” At first, small pebbles merely parted as he shuffled his slow way forward. Gradually though, over time, much larger stones also creaked and groaned at his passing. “Move!” His mouth tasted the many sweet moist red, purple, and blue berries, and the green succulents along that path. Cacti, regardless of sharpened spines, once sat upon, gave way to his hard snap, hewn as the words that drove him. Fraught of callous nature, spoken within heart, mind, and soul, they welled up. “Out of my way, for I am tortoise, long lived, of tough hand, foot, beak and shell.” “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.” Coming of an age, the ways of the tortoise unfolded and became known while crawling on, boastfully displaying the hardened exterior, and only escaping to it’s soft interior when necessary. Through drought and flood, he found his way. Finding mates, then leaving them, each in their turn. Wolves howled outside, frustrated at his impenetrable nature. Inside, smugly smiling, he rejoiced wizened to the race surely won in steps. “This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere, forever.” It was with this confidence one day that this ancient set upon the harsh road of men. Guts strewn, its popped shell was all that remained moments after their meeting. Crushed to bits. Circling buzzards knowing full the meaning and confidant of their own determined purpose smiled, slowly descending.

Adam See

lutesaroundtown — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 20:44:03 GMT

Hung apple haste in weight, of sun’s most radiant slide, gold rays aplenty taste you then, to fill Eve’s knowing eyes. That darkly storm-clouds' gathering, indifferent tossed their rhythm; a rainbow - hope, outside the land of God, new fruit is given.

Sunset

lutesaroundtown — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 19:52:34 GMT

Inevitable as sunrise changes profound, through day older eyes.

My thoughts

lutesaroundtown — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 06:52:14 GMT

The days were the days, not those that I knew, but of scent and in hues quite familiar.

Of Weight and Measure

lutesaroundtown — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 00:57:00 GMT

What price the pound of flesh then when offered on the street, that in like of herring or tasty kidney meat? Should she twine her hair 'round and coo you with her voice, what price the pound of flesh then when mounting that of choice?

When the Skin Comes Off

lutesaroundtown — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 05:08:04 GMT

Some folks eat Roo, do you? Some folks judge others too, but do you? And when it’s spilt, milk will run downhill; To find a honeyed place inside that nook to hide and still… Some folks rue their food, Well, do you?