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.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Limited Albums: Aerosmith
One street,
one mama,
one dream:
Walkin’ the
dog on the
street. Movin’ out, the
kin write the
dog a letter.
one mama,
one dream:
Walkin’ the
dog on the
street. Movin’ out, the
kin write the
dog a letter.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
“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.
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.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 21, 2010
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.
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.
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