Today, I Begin to Fight Again

I started this blog as an attempt to motivate myself, and it has done a poor job of that. Today I have acknowledged why. What truly motivates me, more than anything else, is not creativity, free expression, or even hedonistic happiness. What motivates me is having an enemy. Not a rival. Not an opponent. I am driven by having people in my life for whom I have made it my mission to make miserable. I had forgotten this as my developmental years helped turn me into a person who was genuinely more concerned with the well-being of others than that of himself. The idea being that I could find a good-natured reason to be driven. So I slowly stopped making enemies. What enemies I did have, I no longer strived to hurt. But I have found that without people whom I deem deserving of my active hatred, I lack drive to be all that productive. I became relaxed and complacent with where I was in life, but the world doesn't put up with complacent people. Not for very long anyway. I admitted all this to myself today, because today I felt a drive like I hadn't felt in awhile. The sort of drive that makes you want to do something more than anything else. The sort of drive that will push you to do anything you need to do to accomplish your goal. Today, I have made enemies of certain people who will go unnamed. And I really want to make those people regret waking the anger that I have kept bottled for so long; feeling sad when I should have felt rage. All I can think about is making that happen. No one is going to be physically hurt and nothing illegal is going to take place. I am still as reasonable as ever. But as of this moment, I'm not standing by and feeling sad or frustrated about things I disagree with. Once again, I am going to allow myself to get angry about things. And when I get angry, I get stuff done. This is the last post I'm making to this blog. I will likely start other blogs based on central themes, but no more rambling about myself into the internet with no direction. It never did me any good and I simply don't have the time for it.

Been Awhile and Mullets

Been awhile since I've checked in around here. Just thought of something neat though, but it's too long and pointless to put on Facebook. So I figured I'd put it here.

Like most people I know, I've never been a big fan of mullets. But just a moment ago I thought of something; the mullet is simply long hair for conservative males. You might be thinking, "Well, yeah. You see conservatives and hipsters wearing mullets all the time." But I think there's more to it than that. For a second, think to yourself how often you see an unshakably right-winged man sporting long hair. Probably not often. Now out of those select few, how many were NOT wearing mullets? For me, it's none.

So why does the mullet completely shut out all other wears of long hair among the rebellious yet flag-waiving youth and youth-at-heart of America? Probably something to do with homophobia, if you ask me. The Republican Party tends to make it clear that they don't like gay people. Or at least not enough to let them get married. And I think most people have seen at least one real instance (and a dozen or so in movies) of males being called on their sexual preference based on the length of their hair, sometimes even when said hair is a mullet, but they tend to get by. And whether or not a man with long hair is suspected of being gay, just about anyone of any political leaning would probably suspect him of being a liberal. That is, suspect him of being okay with gay people having the same rights as other people.

For whatever reason, the mullet is typically excluded from this. Possibly because it's too universally perceived as such bad hair that gays or other liberals would only wear it out of "irony." So I suspect there's at least a portion of mullet-wearers who know they look bad, but they want to have long hair while making it clear they believe in Uncle Sam, apple pie, and heterosexuality. So what they're left with is the mullet. Those poor SOBs.

Yoda the Survivor

I'm watching The Empire Strikes Back and noticing some odd things about Yoda. As every fan learned in the prequels, Yoda and Kenobi are the only two surviving Jedi after Palpatine enacts a sort of genocide against them. These two manage to survive and then go into hiding. Kenobi settles on a sparsely populated desert planet with little to do. He also happens to live near one of the children he's hiding from the government. It's definitely a step down from living on Coruscant where he served on a sort of special forces for the government, but it could be worse.

Yoda lives in a swamp. On a swamp planet, actually. He is completely isolated from intelligent life and modern civilization. If you look closely during the movie, you can see that he's actually filthy. It makes sense since his robes are apparently his only clothes, and he has no known means of washing those or himself, other than use inhabited swamp water. We are also led to believe that he has no way of leaving this planet as there isn't a ship in sight besides Luke's sinking X-Wing. Why would he do this to himself?

One might argue that he prefers a life of solitude but he seems to enjoy himself enough with Luke around. We even gain the sense that he genuinely enjoys having him there as company rather than just a student. Sure the freaky cave for testing training Jedi is there but that doesn't mean he has to live there. In case no one noticed, spacecraft is plentiful and available in the Star Wars universe.

All I can think is that Dagobah is actually Yoda's home planet and he feels comfortable there. The obvious question then arises of where others of his species are. My conspiracy theory is that some event wiped his people out, and this is why we never see another creature of his type in the films. This would mean Yoda has survived two genocides against his kind; his species and then his beliefs.

Yoda is freaking awesome.

Exams Are Stressful

As midterms roll around, I'm reminded of a conversation I had with some fellow students about the horrible feelings of stress that come with big, important exams. As we sat around a table in a frozen yogurt shop during finals week, the conversation turned to how stressful that time of the semester can be. I'm pretty open with my friends, so I went out on a limb and asked them if they stressed out the same way I did.

I forget my exact wording, but I talked about how at a certain point, an urge occurs to inflict bodily harm upon oneself just to get out of the semester. I'd never acted on these thoughts, but as finals and procrastination pile up, I admitted that these easy ways out start looking a little better than the alternative. I wasn't surprised that they understood; that's kinda what friends do.

I was surprised that they agreed wholeheartedly, resulting in a talk about all the different things one might do to get out of the responsibility of a semester at school. Included were:
- get hit by a vehicle or in some other way suffer a serious injury
- develop a drug addiction / spend semester in rehab
- get pregnant (probably give baby away)
- contract a temporarily debilitating disease (ex. mono)
- break a limb
- get sent to an asylum
- enlist
- go hobo
- go into an illegal business (drugs, etc.)

Of course, we would never actually do these things just to get out of finals, but the thoughts do occur. If you have any other examples of things you've thought of to get out of your responsibilities for a while, please post them in the comments.

We All Come Out at Night

I like the night. That's no secret to anyone who actually knows me and my sleeping habits. I used to think it was because staying up resulted in valuable alone time, but I had a recent epiphany. Yes, I do enjoy having some time alone but I what I really like about the night is being with other people.

At night, people take off their masks and become their true selves. When people are out in the daytime, everyone plays to the image they're supposed to be, whether it's student, cashier, businessman, or the President, few of us act 100 percent ourselves. Those who do don't fit societal norms are thought to be strange simply because they're honest in their daily self-portrayal.

But as the sun comes down, so do the lies. The layers of deception are peeled back and, for the most part, people don't bullshit each other about who they are. As it gets darker out, we have the subconscious realization that we're not at school or work anymore and we act accordingly.

A Dialogue With God

I was walking through a yellow field one cloudy, summer day when I was approached by a man claiming to be god. He didn’t look like god, for he lacked a big white beard and robes or any resemblance to Morgan Freeman. He looked more like a hobo. The traditional train-living variety complete with hunched back, a big coat, torn beanie, and red handkerchief tied around a stick to hold his belongings.
He addressed me, “Could you spare some change?”
“Sorry, I don’t have any,” I answered before walking past him.
“Well, that’s a lie.”
I was a little peeved that he would assume I’d simply refused him any charity so I turned around and asked, “Now how can you be sure of that?”
“Because I’m god.”
“Oh, really? Well, that’s a lie.”
“No, it’s not. I know because I’m god,” the hobo retorted with a six-toothed grin.
Never having been a fan of circular logic, and having nothing else planned for the day, I decided to debate this surprisingly intelligible homeless man, “So you’re saying you’re god because you know you’re god?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s to stop me from saying I am god?”
“Because you know you’re not. And so do I. On account of being god, you know.”
“I got that. So if you know everything, why did you even ask me for change? Wouldn’t you know that I wouldn’t give you any?”
“Yes, I knew. I also know that you actually have thirty-seven cents in change.”
“Then why would you ask for it? Besides I have...” I fished through my pockets and counted through the coins, “Sixty-four cents in change.”
“See, you were lying.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that. But you we’re wrong.”
“Not really. I purposefully told you a wrong number, knowing that you’d try to prove me wrong. May I have it?”
“Why would god need money?”
“Because I want to get by while still blending in with society.”
“Then why not make your own?”
“That’d be counterfeiting. I’d rather not break the law.”
That baffled me, “You follow the laws of man? As god, wouldn’t your law be ultimate?”
“It would, but I haven’t made any laws.”
“What do you mean? What about the ten commandments?”
“Those are from an ancient storybook written by men. The ten commandments are man’s laws.”
“Then what about the physical laws of the universe. Gravity and light and whatnot?”
“Those things came about on their own.”
I paused to try and formulate my next question but was interrupted by the stranger, “You want to know just what it is I do?”
“Um, yes. I suppose,” I said while ignoring my suspicion that he knew what I was going to ask.
“I don’t do much of anything, really. I have the ability to, but I choose not to.”
“Wh-”
“Why? Because despite popular belief, I didn’t make this universe. It made me. And I don’t feel comfortable messing around with it.”
“Please don’t answer me before I ask the question. It’s rude. I think...”
“Not a problem. Most people aren’t comfortable with it.”
“Yeah, thanks. So apparently you’re all-knowing?”
“Yes and no.”
“Then why are you afraid to change the universe? Wouldn’t you know how it’d turn out?”
“That’s where the ‘no’ applies.”
“... um, explain.”
“It’s a long answer. You’re going to be tired of standing in a few moments, so you should sit down now.”
I somewhat reluctantly took a seat on a wide tree stump.
He began, “Let’s start with time. Most beings believe time is linear because that is how they perceive it,” he used his stick to draw an arrow in a patch of dirt.
“So time’s not linear?”
“Once again, yes and no. Time is, as you have heard various smart people claim, curved. So curved in fact, that it winds back in on it self, making a circle. But it only circles one way. ”
Next to the arrow, he drew a circle that didn’t quite close, with an arrow pointing back to the beginning of the line, “You see, time is linear in that in travels in one direction. But since it comes back in on itself, it’s constantly repeating itself. There is essentially no beginning and no end to time. It’s simply rounds in on itself over and over again.”
Intrigued, I asked “Is there a reason behind this?”
“Of course. You’re familiar with the big bang theory?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that theory is correct. It’s just a bit unfinished. All the matter of the universe was compacted into one incredibly small ball that exploded under the pressure, creating the very spread out universe we have about us today. For simplicities sake, we’ll refer to the big bang as the beginning, even though there is no beginning or end. But this of course leaves the question of where the compacted universe ball came from.
“This is where gravity comes into play. Gravity is the force that gives objects a pull on other objects in direct proportion to the object’s size and it’s proximity to other objects. Gravitational pull is never reduced to nothing; it just becomes inconsequential when objects are spaced far enough apart that another force pushing on said object overrides the pull of gravity. Like how a spaceship escapes the force of earth’s gravitational pull by having more force from the push from the rockets.”
“So the universe really is run by the force?” I joked, “I guess Uncle Ben was right.”
The man smirked, “I can do without the Star Wars references.”
“Okay, sorry. Go on.”
“As I was saying, gravitational pull never dies, it just becomes too weak to notice it. Keep that in mind as I go back to the big bang. When the bang occurred it pushed everything out with a massive blast of energy. So massive, in fact, that everything in the universe is still being pushed away from the area of the blast, despite that gravity want to pull it all in on itself. The popular belief is that this latent energy will continue pushing all the matter in the universe until everything is so dispersed that nothing can form and the universe, as a whole, will die. This is true. The universe will die. But, it will be reborn.”
“Like your son.”
“If you choose to believe that fairy tale, then yes.”
“I do.”
“I’ve noticed a lot of people have. Anyway, the nothingness that the mass and energy of the universe has dispersed through is not only infinite but round. As you know, the vast majority of space is empty. The universe is merely our name for the all the matter that has spread its way through this nothingness. So long after everything has dispersed and died, it will begin to come back in on itself again as it rounds through the nothingness.”
“But if the nothingness is infinite, wouldn’t it take an infinite amount of time for everything to round it?”
“Yeah. What’s your point?”
“Well, that means it’s never gonna happen. There is no rebirth.”
“Ah, but you misunderstand infinity.”
I’d found a flaw in his theory, “No, I don’t. Infinity means endless, unreachable. If something is infinitely big, you’d need an infinite amount of time to traverse it.”
He pointed at his circle in the dirt and retorted, “But we do have an infinite amount of time. And as we close in on infinity, all the mass from before is near each other again, pulling into each other because of the force of gravity. And just as the infinite circle of time comes back to where it started, the universe is once again pulled into on incredibly small fist of mass and energy. Before too long, it explodes in the big bang, in exactly the same way it did before, causing everything to happen the same way it did during the last eternity; successfully repeating time. I was created during the big bang and when the ball is formed yet again, the mass and energy that I’m made up of will be reabsorbed and I’ll be re-birthed with the rest of the universe. So yes, I do know everything but only because I’ve been around to witness everything. I don’t know what will happen if I alter the cycle in any way. So I go about each eternity just as I did the one before.”
“So you’re saying that eternity as we perceive it is merely one cycle of time?”
“Yes.”
I took off my cap and scratched my head before getting up from the stump and conceding, “I suppose it makes just as much sense as anything. Um, here. You can have the change,” I held out my handful of recycled mass to him.
“Thank you,” he said as he clenched the change into a fist and shoved it into a pocket.
As he turned and started to walk away, I called out to him, “So we’ve had this conversation before? And you knew we would and you knew exactly how it would go?”
Without turning around, he answered, “Yes. I actually look forward to this conversation, too. It’s one of the few times I get to explain myself to someone. Most beings won’t listen to a person ramble on about being god,” he laughed as he hoisted his stick and red handkerchief over his shoulder.
There was no final goodbye as I watched him walk out of sight. It didn’t seem necessary, knowing that we’d see each other again in one eternity.

Limited Albums: Billion Dollar Babies

The sick and dead
raped sweet Mary Ann.
The landslide
elected Mr. Guy,
Mr. Dollar
raped the freezin’ babies.
No more generation:
Mary
elected
unfinished things.

Limited Albums: Live Wire/Blues Power [Live]

Please, stomp me out, love.
Please, love me
at night.
Please, power me.
At sunrise,
stomp out.

Skin Flicks

Joe Somebody walks to the grimy part of town to take care of some grimy business. Namely, the sort of business one takes care of at a porno theatre, since that’s where he’s going. Keeping a low profile in a grey coat and baseball cap, he purchases his ticket at the counter and walks into the lobby, avoiding eye-contact with all and any employees or fellow patrons. He pushes through the double-doors of screening room number two. The header above the door reads, “Loose Lucy.”
The film hasn’t begun yet but the room is dark and the credits from the last showing are rolling. Some human shaped silhouettes are getting up and leaving but most of the couple dozen stay put; no other plans for the day. Joe finds a seat situated by itself, as has everyone else. A few more tailing silhouettes take seats of their own, making sure not to sit in those just vacated. Nobody says a word, nobody turns their gaze from the screen, nobody dare even cough or sneeze. The credits end and shuffling can be herd from the projection room as the reel is started. Three, two, one.
The room isn’t so dark anymore as celluloid is projected onto the screen, displaying the title of the film in curvy, white lettering over the opening shot of a man and woman drinking at a bar. They’re the only two there and are animatedly showing their inebriation by way of slurring their words and balancing precariously on their barstools. The woman, Loose Lucy one would presume, has wavy, blond hair and an ample chest made known to the audience by the cleavage exposed behind her white blouse. The man is inconsequential. After a conversation no one listens to and a few laughs that display Lucy’s bright smile, she stumbles off her stool and towards the bathroom.
The scene cuts to Lucy washing her hands and looking up at the mirror to see the man behind her with, wearing a devilish grin. He moves in close and gropes her from behind. Despite her protests, she hardly fights back beyond a playful manner. What ensues is an act of intercourse that is surprisingly able-bodied on both sides despite the two of them appearing to be fall-down drunk just a few moments ago. The scene ends as one would expect, with most of the audience having done what one would expect.
Shortly after the screen goes dark, Joe walks out to the scarcely lit lobby. He pushes through a door into a room lined with grimy tile, concrete, peeling wallpaper, and graffiti over all of it. He walks past a row of sinks, then urinals, before opening the first of four stalls and making use of it. Just before he reaches for the toilet paper, he hears the restroom door slam open and the voices of four or so people.
“Stop struggling!”
“Just keep movin’!”
Something slams against the side of the stalls, causing Joe’s walls to shudder. That same something is then shoved into the corner, just outside the last stall. Joe listens to a man’s pleading.
“Please stop. I promise I won’t come here again.”
The voice is answered by the slapping, cracking sound of a heavy fist laying into a cheek and the toppling of a tall man onto the floor. Joe can hear the others shuffling so as to surround him.
“Please let me go.”
“Boy, there’s nothing I’d like more than to let you go, but first you gotta stop lying to us,” said a voice brimming with superiority.
“I’m not lying--”
A few more landed blows can be heard before the same voice continues, “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Lies. I can’t stand them. So why don’t you tell us the truth and I’ll let you go. Why don’t you tell us that you were watching that nice, white woman get raped in that movie? Why don’t you tell us how you watched it, imagining yourself doing the same thing? Raping white women; that’s what gets you niggers off. Isn’t it, boy? Just say yes and I’ll let you be.”
The defeated man mumbles something.
“I couldn’t hear you, boy.”
There’s a short pause before he repeats himself loudly and clearly, “Yes.”
“Good,” Joe could hear the brute patting the man’s bloodied face.
“You heard him boys, this nigger likes to rape white women. He’s probably thinking of raping you’re wives, mothers, and sisters. Now I’m gonna leave because I’m a man of my word and I promised to let him go. But I can tell the rest of you aren’t done with him yet.”
“Ay, boss.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” the leader of this mini mob says before he can be heard washing his hands, pulling paper towels, and letting the restroom door close behind himself.
The two or three men left behind turn to the cornered man and pummel him until he stops struggling and calling for help; Joe figures the man must be unconscious. He hears three zippers followed by the sound of streaming liquid hitting tile and cloth before he hears the zippers again. The men wash their hands and leave. Joe hears the door shut but stays seated. Before Joe can figure out what to do, the man in the corner gets up and walks up to the door of Joe’s stall.
“Why didn’t you help?”
Joe doesn’t answer.
“So you’re just gonna keep pretending you aren’t there? Not take any responsibility for what just happened to me? You gonna try and forget this ever happened?”
Joe just sits there.
“You know you won’t forget. You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life. You’re gonna remember this day, when you hid like a coward while a hate crime was committed just fifteen feet from where you were taking a shit.”
Still nothing from Joe.
“Well I hope you’re a racist, sir. I hope you’re happy that I got beaten for watching the same movie you and all your white friends watched. I hope that’s what you wanted. Because I can go home and change out of these piss-ridden clothes. I can take a shower and clean the blood from my body. I can simply wait, and my wounds will heal. But you can’t do anything to change what you did here today, so I pray to god that you wanted it to happen.”
The man’s uneven footsteps bring him to the sink. The water runs for a long time before he pulls some paper towels and leaves the room. Joe waits a good fifteen minutes before opening his stall door. In the corner is a puddle of blood and piss slowly spilling towards a drain at the center of the floor. There are dark-red splatters on the wall and the where the man was slammed into the stalls. A trail of watery-red shoe prints from the corner lead to a dirty sink before heading out the door. Joe washes his hands at a different sink before leaving the bathroom and walking back into screening room number two; taking his former seat in time for the next showing.

Limited Albums: Elegant Gypsy

Highway over Rome:
gypsy devil.
On Mediterranean flight,
midnight tango with Spanish lady.
Elegant sister of Rio with
elegant, sister suite.

Limited Albums: Honkin' on Bobo

I’m ready,
to move back
to the Jesus grind.
Jesus, please shame the
temperature blind.
I’m ready,
to shame the girl
on-line.
I’m ready,
to move eyesight,
to the main runner
on the road to baby-girl.

Limited Albums: Toys in the Attic

Uncle Adam’s big,
round, sweet, apple.
In the attic,
crying ‘round
the big record round,
emotion and
toys inch this way.
Walk no more.
No crying, no more.

Limited Albums: Aerosmith

One street,
one mama,
one dream:
Walkin’ the
dog on the
street. Movin’ out, the
kin write the
dog a letter.

“Limited Albums: For Those About to Rock We Salute You”

Spellbound knives inject the finger of you.
We salute the venom
it put to you.
Those long, snowballed rules
get up
to rock you.
Evil walks
the spellbound night,
breaking the venom
on you.

Shade: Chapter 3

Chapter Three
George drives his empty pickup to city hall after dropping Myla off at the local K-12. She was still as quiet as when he picked her up from his sister’s place, but George figured she’d start feeling better once she made some friends. Kate even packed lunch for her after making breakfast. George had forgotten what it was like to have someone around to help take care of things.
“Just wish she didn’t have to be so pretty. Talking to her on the phone I figured she was a bit older,” George thinks to himself as he pulls in front of city hall.
The modest brick structure isn’t nearly as cheery as the photo George remembers seeing in the town’s brochure, “But it is a dreary day in general,” he tells himself.
Two stories high with the ever expected central dome, the city hall in Shade is a miniature to those in big cities like San Francisco. Out front is a rose garden from which rises a flag pole just a foot or two higher than the hall. The roses have yet to recover from their annual beheading and the flags hang limp and rumpled on this windless day. George stops just in front of the pole to read the adjoining plaque. Raised up from the brass are the words:
“LIVE IN FEAR SO YOU MAY DIE IN PEACE.”
-Stan Lucas, FOUNDER
“Must have been a religious man,” thinks George while walking up the stone steps and through the open door.
He follows the directory to get to the mayor’s office on the second floor. Just as he’s about to knock a gruff voice calls out, “Come in. The door’s open.”
George walks in to find a man sitting behind the desk who resembles an oversized beet, both in shape and color, that squeezed into an old, brown suit. His hair consists of a few wisps of white combed over his large head. At his unkept mahogany desk sits a crystal decanter half full with brandy, a box of cigars, a pen holder that reads Mayor McBoyle, and a rumpled stack of ink, coffee, and brandy stained papers. From the large window behind him, the church bell tower seems to loom as high over town as the icy peaks in the distance. The window is bordered by two flags; the nation’s on the left and the state’s on the right. On the right wall are framed photos from the man’s campaigns and inaugurations, along with a framed degree in something or other. Against the left wall is a bookcase filled with leather bound law books, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and a bible or two.
“Please take a seat,” McBoyle implores of George while donning his half moon spectacles and shuffling through his paperwork.
George lowers himself into the wooden chair in front of him, causing it to creak. McBoyle takes a second to drink from his mug before he pulls out a crumpled sheet and smoothes it out against the desk before sliding it to George.
“I’ve filled out the form for you,” McBoyle informs as he removes his glasses, “just sign at the bottom.”
“That’s it?”
“Legally that’s all it takes here. I don’t see a need for any pomp and circumstance if you don’t.”
“No, it’s fine. Just thought I was gonna end up being here all day,” as he grabs a fountain pen and autographs the form.
“Nope, you are now the sheriff of Shade,” McBoyle puts the form away and pulls out two lowball glasses.
Just as he’s about to pour the second glass, the new sheriff interrupts him, “I’m afraid I can’t join you. I’m, uh, I’m an alcoholic.”
“How long you’ve been off the sauce for?”
“Two months, nine days.”
“Then heres to your two months dry,” he declares before raising his glass and downing the amber liquid.
He puts the glasses back in the desk and gets up from his chair, “Let’s go to lunch, sheriff. My treat.”

******************************************************************************
“What’ll you have, sheriff?” the waitress asks George in her two-pack a day voice.
“Um, the bacon cheeseburger. With home fries.”
“How do you want that?”
“Well done.”
“To drink?”
“Just the water.”
She turns to the mayor, “And you’ll have the usual?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. One bacon and cheese with spuds and one mayor’s special.”
She collects their menus and the two watch her walk behind the counter and pin their orders on the string above the kitchen window. The diner is of the typical pastel colors, with donuts under glass at the counter and pies on display near the front. A red gumball machine sits just inside the entrance. They sit at a booth with a steel-rimmed table; blue, plastic veneer. Salt and pepper in glass shakers. The condiments are also in clear glass; next to the bear of honey, and the packets of saltines, sweeteners, and preserves. George flips through these while the mayor goes over his new job.
“There’s not too much for you to do here. Your position is mostly a cautionary one. As you know, you’ll be replacing our retiring sheriff, Clem. He got by being the only cop in town so we expect that you’ll be fine. Hell, Clem didn’t even have prior training.”
George simply nods his understanding.
“In the unheard of event that you need assistance, you are permitted to hire on other officers. Just bring it up with the treasury first so we can see how it’ll fit into the budget. But on a busy night you won’t do much more than answer a noise complaint, or bust minors for drinking and smoking. In fact, you’ll probably get bored,” McBoyle chuckles.
George fails to provide any sort of response.
“What made you wanna come out here, anyway?” McBoyle presses for conversation.
George pauses for a second before answering, “I figured living in a quiet town with a quiet job would give me more time with my daughter. Things... haven’t been the same between us since her mom died. Although they weren’t that great to begin with. I was always so involved with work that we barely spent any time together. I spent most of the drive up here trying to figure out how old she was without tipping her off. Of course, the drinking never helped our bond either... I’m hoping we can get a fresh start here.”
“Well, I hope you get that,” McBoyle answers as the waitress brings their lunch.
The mayor’s special consists of a club sandwich, a mound of potato salad, and a mug of coffee. Seems pretty standard until the waitress pulls a flask out of her apron pocket and tops off the mug.
“Thank you, dear,” McBoyle says with a smile.
She smiles back and turns away.
Before he can even pick up a fry, George finds himself asking, “Do you always drink so much?”
McBoyle takes a sip before answering, “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it. Why’d you drink?”
George doesn’t say anything for a minute. He squirts some ketchup on his burger and takes a sip of water before admitting, “I didn’t want to live. But I was too afraid to kill myself. So I drank and prayed for death to come.”
“So what made you stop? What made you wanna live?”
“My daughter deserves better than that. I was crushed after her mom died but I realized I could still save Myla. I could still give her a good life and maybe find some happiness with her.”
“I’m sure you will,” McBoyle raises his mug to George.
George notices the mayor’s eyes are the same ultra-light blue as Kate’s as he clinks his glass to the ceramic coffee cup. They drink to his new life and consume their meal.

******************************************************************************
The sheriff’s station / jailhouse is downtown, in the same building as the post office. A cement structure that’s almost comforting in its resemblance to Andy Griffith’s place of work. The only things missing are the unlocked gun rack, the town drunk sleeping one off, and little, iron barred windows in the well-furnished cells. Instead there’s a locked armory in the back, small but plenty for one sheriff, and empty cells with steel toilets and solid, cement walls. George is shaking hands with an old, gray man who’s been hard of hearing and site for the last decade or so. He’s dressed in his uniform for the last time, as he’s technically retired at this point.
“I’ll come in tomorrow to check on how your doing and collect some of my things,” Clem warbles to George as he tours him through the workplace.
“Okay then. What are your hours here?” responds George; the mayor is at a window, waving to passing townsfolk and occasionally taking a sip from his silver hip flask.
Clem assures, “Whenever feels right to be honest. Just make sure you always let someone know where you are in case someone needs you for something. And obviously you’ll have to stay the night if you’ve locked someone up.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Good. You already have your uniform at home?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s the key to the front door and my desk drawer. Your gun, badge, other keys, and whatever else you need will be locked away in there when you come in tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” George takes two jumbo, skeleton keys from Clem’s hands and wonders just how old the locks are.
Clem looks George in the eyes, “Good luck. Remember, I’ll be checking in on you.”

******************************************************************************
“How was school?” George asks Myla as she tosses her pink backpack into the truck and hops into the passenger seat.
“It was okay,” she mumbles with a click of her seatbelt.
“Did you make any friends?” George pulled the truck out of the lot and started to make for Kate’s.
“No....”
“No? Why not? Didn’t you play with them at recess or something?
“They wouldn’t let me. Every time I tried to talk to someone or play with them, they’d walk away.”
“Just walk away? They didn’t even say anything?”
“Yes,” she crosses her arms and pouts, “I wanna go home.”
“We’re going home right now--”
“That place isn’t my home! I hate it here!” she flails her arms and pulls her blue hood up before crossing them again.
“Myla, calm down. I no you miss home right now but you’ll make friends soon. Just keep trying,” he optimistically ensures while making a mental note to talk to her teacher.
“I wanna go back to aunt Mary’s. Why did you bring me here?”
George stops the car so he can look at his daughter while he speaks, “Because you’re my daughter. It’s my job to take care of you and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you for the last few months. That never should have happened. But I promise I won’t do it again. I love you, Myla. So until you’re an adult, you go where I go and I keep you safe. Got that?”
Myla grumbles something.
“Got that?” George repeats.
“Yes,” Myla responds in the sternest voice a ten or eleven year old is capable of.
George takes his foot of the brake. As they pull up to the house, Kate waves at them from the open front door and George allows himself a smile and a wave back, while Myla purposefully glowers.

Prayer for Nothing

Retreat to the corner,
find reprieve in insanity.
Eat mollusks from the garden,
flee for European beaches.

But fate tugs on our leashes
and harrowing days will follow.
Be it at home or abroad,
the things we know bind us
to Nothing.

Sweet Nothing; innocent, delicate,
blank, and serene.
Sweet Nothing, bring release to me.
Find me mid-dream
and this crowded world we’ll leave.

Limited Song Titles

Don’t nod to no don, Dot.
Cry,
sister, rest. Sis sets sires’ tires. Tiers rise.

Swlabr saw war, slaw, laws, labs, abs, bars, bras. Lars was slab raw.

Cross orcs or rocs. SOS.
Roads or rad soda ads. Sod soars.

I
need Ned.
You. Yo,

joker. Joke or jerk Joe
and Dan.
The
thief hit. Heft it,

working king. Work kin or wring gin. Orin rowing now. Won no ink nor wig,
man. An ma

crazy. Cry, racy
mama.

Break bare bark. Baker, bake bear-beak
on
through our hot, rough, tough hour. Thor got hog gut
to
the
other Thor. He tore the hot
side. Die,

tales set at east LA. Steal ales lest Seal eats set sea-salt
of
brave bear. Be rave. Bar
Ulysses. Yes, use Sue’s

strange, great sage. Gents get set. Sea rats sent
brew. Be

Caroline near care? Nora can loan an ear or rice

behind
blue lube.
Eyes see

vernal veal navel. Earn an
equinox ox.

No
quarter near. Eat true

celebration boar. Cater antler bone at
day.

Here

for
those she shot. The hoes set
about a boat; out
to
rock orc.
We
salute teal lutes. Let’s seat
you.

Rain in air.
Song so

white, we wet the
room.

A
horse shoe or her
with wit. Hi,
no-
name. Man,

the
song. No son
remains in Maine. Names snare
the
same men.

Call
me, Em.
The
breeze be

sand. Dan and sad
man

pin pi in
ball.
Wizard,

rock
and
roll.

Limited Vocabulary

Dar rad aardvark ark dark.

As bass abs ass.
Lo-cal, calico, coal. Coca-cola co coil oil. Col ail CA.
Dear, read dar red ear. Dare are rad.

Earn are ran era, near an ear.

Flour for our four or lo foul flu.
Gauge age gag. Aug egg gage.
He heed dee hedge edge, Gee.

Log oil lo igloo goo.

Joe-joker joke or roe ore.
Oar on an okra ark or Nora ran rank nor Koran.
Lea flea la ale leaf.
Mirror rim or mir.
Jan, an inn jinn in nan. Nina ninja.

Rod door or do rood odor.

Mop Poe pom mope poem.
Quilt lit, it quit.
Hoar-orc arc, or car arch, oar roach.
Seer see sen. Screen seen ere.
Hot Troy-port try pry thy toy trophy or rot pot.

Cue nu clue, Uncle Lune.

Mac cam vacuum cum.
Write ire wit. Ret rite, wet, tire. Tie writ wire.
Ay, Ray. Xray ax?
Young guy, you nog yon nu gun. Goy gnu!
Ay, any nay an zany.

Vegas

A barren mess
without caress.
The maids scuttle about
while the masters shout.
More ale for the ailing
more ail for the failing.
Bailing from burning wrecks
chasing voided checks.
Fall to the ground running
the rest are coming.
Fears left for dead
stuffed under the bed.
Dice tumblers mumble
drunks merely bumble.
Everywhere is light
yet in the dark they fight.
Old mothers bawl
their children crawl.
Girls sell their nights
steal what’s in site.
Thinkers of odds
beaten with rods.
Come back, lucky
win back your money.

Jump

Sitting on the brim,
looking in.
Darkness below. I jump.

Down and down and down,
violently pushing through the frigid air--
sploosh. Water, but no light only dark.
Dive. Deep and deeper.
Cold and colder. I get old and older.
Skin prunes, vision blurs, hairs gray and leave.
Suddenly I fall out the bottom
and land on the brim,
young again.

Sitting on the brim,
looking in.
Darkness below. I jump.