Farthest Aisle

Housed within a beige cubicle, Jay and I alternately enter data into a shared computer. In tandem we push file carts along a grey carpeted maze of legal documents. The depositions, court reports and affidavits that we pass are deadwood testifiers to naked greed. These volumes are lawsuits against C.N.A., the insurers of Owens Corning/Fibreboard, the purveyors of asbestos, soft killer of hard working people, vampire of dedication, effort and breath. Our employer.

Outside, wild rainbow youth swim upstream through

Financial district streets.

They yell: Fight AIDS, Act Up, Fight Back!

Bathed in florescent lights, corporate goons dress in drab. They ring bells instead of calling us by name. They never look us in our faces when assigning duties.

There is no lack of work. Asbestos’ snake-like fibers lacerate their victim’s lungs at alarming rates. People that loved these workers sue. More suits, more files, more jobs.

Outside, wild rainbow youth swim upstream through

Financial district streets.

They call: Fight AIDS, Act Up, Fight Back!

Inside the walls of morbidity, Jay and I take a break . The cocoons that rest in our busy bellies arise as beautiful butterflies. Fluttering wings of day-glow pink, blue and orange light up the lunchroom and descend upon the sheen of linoleum as we speak of art, music and life. We share words of lust that make us shake, and our mouths singe and smoke.

We prance in hot pants through the khakied halls of bad vibes. Back where we won’t be found. We lay down in the farthest aisle, far enough away to make out unmolested for 10 blistering minutes, and faux fuck amongst the dead.

Elvis, Aaron Cometbus and the CMJ

The cameras rolled.

They would have to stop regularly because he would burst into laughter.

Sustained spurts of giggles were finally held back.

He made great strides, to the point that his acting seemed real. He would spend most of his time faking it.

Show him what you can do lover, I say to myself from backstage.

I have a fever of one thousand degrees

I’m too sick to drink coffee

He comes up and says hi, I have strep throat

He finally asks if I want a ride

Just the two of us, but I sit in the backseat while he drives.

He is loud and dumb

I exit at forty miles per hour

I miss the connecting bus, and the stores I go to are closed.

I walk past the railroad bridge near the shooting range.

I meet a very important lady.

She’s been discharged from the army and has a story to tell.

Prior pursuits prepare her for a first showing.

Her paintings beg nagging questions.

Are they really art?

Fifteen thousand dollars per piece?

Why do they cost that much?

Others spill their whole lives for song.

For nothing.

In a needing world.

She wants.

I lost my best friend.

Topple

Into the moat of shoes that surrounds the shaking palace, I kick off my mine, and climb the steep drawbridge. Through the inflated door I gaze and drop down to the floor that is not made of marble, but of billowed rubber.

My crouched legs spring into stretched action. I notice others in the room; some launch, some lob, all beam with hundred watt smiles. I feel the foundation shift between my sock covered toes as I become the rise and fall.

As I catch breath, maneuver, roll, and jump, I see a motionless world out of the cellophane windows. Larger bodies wait outside, their noses pressed against the plastic panes.

A thick thud radiates my skull as it hits another.

I rub my sore spot and greet the next wave of attacks. Plucked from midair, my fifteen minutes are up as this carbonated world goes flat. I return deflated to the back of the line.

House and Home

Five, in a grey box house with a chain link fence.

I saw a boy in a red shirt crouch and aim both hands at my face while

he closed one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope.

He squeezed his trigger and yelled pow.

Nine, in a brick house in the belly of a cul-de-sac.

I ate tomatoes right off the vine while I breathed in the exhalants of a city pesticide truck.

Fourteen, in a two-story cookie cutter home.

Between an emerald front lawn and a sapphire swimming pool, my grandmother put down her bible and held me by the wrists while telling me no one loved her,

not even my father.

Twenty, in a railroad flat with a black bar bedroom view.

I broke up and made up with two girlfriends and one boyfriend.

I wore lipstick when I was with him.

Twenty-two, in a garage behind the DMV.

On a cement floor with a mattress in the corner and exposed plumbing for a wardrobe hanger, I listened to a verbal abuser tread upon his wife.

Twenty-three, in a two-bedroom with Garfield curtains.

A forgotten cigarette left on the porch turned spray cans into color grenades. I came home to a fire truck with red and white lights flashing,

and a hovering helicopter blowing in the faces of my roommates who were high on LSD.

The landlord was not.

Twenty-four, in a one-bedroom with a dirty carpet.

I witnessed from the window a man getting his gun and person removed by the police. His crew later sprayed five rounds into our apartment.

Twenty-eight, in a flat on the third floor.

A red-haired stunner with a fresh tattoo around her navel lie below. Her mouth opened wider than I liked when we kissed. I never complained.

Thirty, in a converted one-bedroom.

With an overbearing roommate who liked me too much, I worked from my room selling useless insurance to senior citizens.

Thirty-two, in a two-bedroom.

I humanely trapped mice and let them go in the subway.

Thirty-four, in a one-bedroom apartment. I lived with my fiancé above an unstable gun collector. He had garden access, but let the fruit rot on the trees.

Thirty-eight, in a condo. My wife, new baby and I rocked, sang, danced, and hushed.

Forty-one, in a three-bedroom home. I see a boy in a green shirt crouch behind my couch, he aims both hands at my face while closing one eye to see sharply through an invisible scope. He squeezes his trigger and yells pow.

Beige Carpet and Black Streamers

I hide behind the metal folding chair because my mother, my mother’s mother, and my mother’s mother’s mother all stand at the open casket to pay respects to my great grandfather.

To pay respects includes touching the lifeless body.

As I kneel on the beige carpet underneath the black streamers, my mother spots me, shoots a look. Her mother and her mother’s mother crane their necks while weeping loudly into handkerchiefs.

I step up to the casket but I can’t reach. My uncle picks me up and dangles me above the open box.

I flutter as my tears wet the lapels of the ill-fitting suit that never belonged to my great grandfather.

I touch his hands.

I return to earth to find my mother, my mother’s mother, and my mother’s mother’s mother smiling three smiles.

Lynn Purcell

Lynn wants you to kiss her after school

Terrified, I keep the note’s contents under wraps.

My blood tingles and introduces me to my body.

Already passing public school sex education, I know this:

A kiss can not get Lynn pregnant. No threat of rearing a child at age 10.

I swoon and cringe, knees almost buckle at this invitation, I also worry about the man idling in the parking lot. He is pleasant enough, but he does not have much patience.

The stale smell of freshly sharpened pencils is now a bouquet of chocolate and cinnamon.

I wait as the the second-hand leapfrogs over the minute and hour-hands.

Clanging of the bell interrupts the beautiful mayhem behind my eyes.

She wants me.

I slowly walk out of the classroom after the galloping hordes.

I find Lynn.

Her cheeks are red. She leans against the double doors. My smile hurts my head. Her bangs rest atop her lashes and frame her face.

I say Hi.

Honey giggles in my already echoing ears.

I pole-vault towards Lynn's lips that glisten, quiver and pulse.

They taste like Dr. Pepper.

Our smackings are sweet bombs softly exploding. They were lit by fuses of gummi bears and maraschino cherries.

Our tryst has to end. We dizzily draw away from one another.

These sensations are more powerful than my father’s El Camino that drives me home.

Zipper, Snap, Collar, Patch

Zipper, Snap, Collar, Patch---Tom Galbraith

Endurance sewn into her stalwart sleeves

This skin of reason, this tether

Left upon beds, in strange cars

Returning to beat back weather

Like a reed in a storm that topples trees

Bent not broken, soft yet spoken,

Above the gusts of unblinking eyes,

She remains

Still

Standing

Since 1985

They, the world, peers, their ilk, misguided, fixed on prize

Should bow down, kowtow and curtsy

To her fabric, character, weight

To this steadfast testifier warmth shall gravitate

Some call it need, some say folly to this purchase that I cling

Some say it’s not the song, rather the lyrics the singer sings

Either way is fine by me, I never wish to bicker,

With my love, my life, my confidant

Our blood could not be thicker.

No Contest

No Contest----Tom Galbraith

As he skated to work the apron around Stephen’s neck flew behind him, and the asphalt scraped beneath his wheels. It was Friday, and there was talk of a frat party in Madison. When Stephen arrived at the Loco Gringo he found the industrial sink stacked with last night’s dirty dishes, the webbed restaurant floor mats underneath his feet sticky and soiled. Not fulfilling, yet not that big of a pain in the ass either, as the dishwashing job held repetition. Repetition that soothed the unease of not doing what he really wanted to do: play music. Stephen lived at home, and this made it easy to save money to go on tour with his band.

Stephen’s band was scheduled to tour up and down the West Coast in one week. Touring was an act of love. His band barely made more than gas money on the road. The dishes were the necessary toil in his life, the actualization of paying dues. The job was flexible, and they always let him return after his excursions.

After an hour or so of scouring the dishes caked with the remnants of meals that people paid for but didn’t finish, Stephen stepped outside for a smoke. He ran into his buddy Chet.

“Hey, what’s up?” asked Chet.

“Nothing man, just answering my life’s calling, scrubbing pots and pans. What

about you loser?” replied Stephen.

Chet extended his hand to bum a smoke off of Stephen and said, “Same.

I’m looking forward to tonight though.”

As he handed over a smoke and his lighter, Stephen asked, “Yeah, why’s

that?”

“My buddy Rick knows of a frat party in Madison,” Chet answered.

“I heard. Are you going?” asked Stephen.

“Nope. I don’t like cheap beer and college ladies.”

After an awkward silence Chet blurted out, “Of course I’m going! I’m driving, you

want to go?”

“Yes sir!”

“I’ll meet you at Hilltop at 7:00,” Chet said.

“Nice, always smart to have a designated driver,” Stephen said.

“Listen up, Safety First, I’m not your designated nothing. If I get my drink on

- which I will - I’ll sleep in the bushes. The cops are sharks after midnight. Fuck

that.”

“Whatever, let’s cross that bridge when it comes, I got to be at work

tomorrow morning at 11:00 anyway,” Stephen said.

“All I’m saying is, just cos’ I’m driving your dumb ass out there, doesn’t mean

I’m responsible for you.” Chet reiterated.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” said Stephen.

Stephen had known Chet for years, but their relationship wasn’t super tight. Chet had his problems. He had done some time in the state juvenile camp for taking his dad’s car without permission; his dad had turned him in. Chet now lived with his mom. Chet had no dreams that Stephen knew of. Even though he had no college aspirations, Chet dressed a little preppie with a popped collar, slacks and top siders. He worked as waiter at the Hungry Hunter.

Stephen had his shortcomings as well, but was kind at heart. He never saw the inside of the principal’s office, let alone the back of a police car. He had just graduated from high school and was allergic to the idea of a buttoned-down future. He wasn’t anti-corporation, but he was sure that he didn’t want to be chained to a desk, ever. Stephen was also not the best picker of friends, something his mother told him over and over.

Stepping back into work Stephen felt even happier than before his break. The nicotine had helped, and in just four more hours he would be driving to a scene much cooler than the scullery. Going to Madison always meant record shopping and checking out bands, but tonight there was a party as well. Conversely, hanging around Rutland on a Friday night was nowhere at all.

After meeting at Hilltop, Stephen hopped into Chet’s beaten down Cutlass and away they chugged. The flat, two-lane blacktop passed underneath Stephen’s passenger seat like flickering incandescent pebbles, pixels and ants. Stephen checked Chet’s cassette case. All the tapes were speed metal, and Stephen found metal limiting. Too many notes, coming too quick, in aligned fashion. He knew this genre had its time and place, but neither that time, nor that place ever came up in Stephen’s world. In contrast, the leg room in the Cutlass was limitless - pure freedom. Even for a relatively short guy, Stephen enjoyed legroom. They drove with the radio turned off.

“I hate all those small cars that look like space age basketball shoes, who thinks those things look good?” asked Stephen aloud, but not really directly at Chet.

Exiting the freeway, they entered into frat house row. The smell of spoiled rich kids thickened the air. The snowboards, kayaks, and exquisite mountain bikes in the front windows and on the porches of the frat houses mocked Chet’s rural upbringing. He wanted those things, worked for those things, but he didn’t have them. Chet parked the car, which stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. As a group of students walked by, one called out sarcastically, “Nice ride.”

They walked into the party looking for Chet’s buddy Rick. Stephen didn’t really know Rick, but they had gone to the same small high school. Rick’s older brother just graduated from UW and was a brother of Kappa Alpha Order, the fraternity whose house they were at. Rick was going to transfer to UW after knocking out some classes at the community college.

There was a lot of noise upstairs, but no one was on the porch or first floor. Chet saw Rick run down the stairs with a cup in his hand. Chet met him at the bottom of the stairs and gave Rick a playful sock to the arm. He said, “Yo, man, what’s up? Thanks for the invite.”

Rick was taken aback, “Hey Chet, I didn’t think you were going to make it. Uh… grab a beer. Here are a couple of cups.” Rick reached for the sleeve of cups, grabbed a couple and handed them to Chet. Rick filled his cup from the keg first, and then bolted away from the two.

“I’m going upstairs to talk with some of my brother’s buddies,” said Rick from the back of his head.

Stephen quickly knew that they weren’t wanted, and now wondered if Chet was ever really invited in the first place. Rick didn’t even acknowledge Stephen. On the other hand, it looked like they wouldn’t throw them out. They filled their cups. Stephen turned away from the keg and received an elbow to the ribs by a giant oaf and spilled half his beer. There was nothing he could do about it. With one comment Stephen knew his ass would be kicked, and he would be outside. Stephen doubted Chet would back him up, and he certainly wouldn’t leave early to give Stephen a ride if Chet remained unscathed inside the party. But that was all for nothing, Stephen wasn’t going to say shit.

They went outside to the porch to grab a smoke. Neither of them was too psyched to stay, but being treated like outsiders wasn’t out of the ordinary. They were there, and the beer was free. Chet stuck his hand out again after Stephen had lit up. Stephen handed him the pack and lighter.

“What a bunch of fucking assholes, just a steroid-infused army of entitled wanks. Their stupid secret handshake society, such lame retarded bullshit,” spewed Chet.

Stephen replied, “Yep, my side hurts. Let’s just relax for a bit, maybe we’ll split soon. It isn’t like we get a ton of respect in Rutland either.”

They smoked awhile on the back porch, bruised ribs and all.

Kappa Alpha Order had at least four brothers on the UW Football Team. The cheerleader and sorority girls were all over the place. Neither the sisters nor brothers would give them the time of day; in fact, they threw a few insults their way.

One innocuous looking co-ed passed by Chet and said, “Oh, I didn’t know this party was opened to immature losers.”

They refilled, chugged and refilled again. They moved inside to the living room, and sat down on the couch. The beer couldn’t mask their boredom, or rejection. Stephen drifted and mulled over the fact that he had never wanted to go to college, he didn’t see much point in it. His mom hadn’t gone, or his dad, and they were happy. On tour things were better for Stephen. He was away from Rutland. He expressed himself nightly to the few dozen locals that showed up to whatever venue in whatever town the band drove to night after night. He was a drummer and playing drums every night for fourteen nights in a row propelled him to a higher plane. He could just turn his mind off and play the songs. Muscle memory taking over, by rote yet exciting for him, and for the people who watched him. Even though he often had to sleep on the floor in rooms not unlike this one, the vipers and sharks in this current house were especially menacing. On tour he was away, and the only focus during daytime hours was getting to the next town.

Chet started playing with Stephen’s lighter. Stephen reached for the lighter and told Chet to knock it off, but Chet picked up a nylon Kappa Alpha Order sash and started burning it.

“What the fuck are you doing Chet?” demanded Stephen.

But it went up quick and started to catch the couch on fire. It all happened so fast. They flushed the small fire with their beers. Unbelievably, no one from upstairs could smell the smoke and aftermath yet. No one had come downstairs in the last five minutes.

Chet, now scared for his own skin said, “We’re going to get killed. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They ran out of the house to their car parked across the street.

In the car ride home Stephen was relieved, but frightened out of his mind. The trace of the red taillights from the cars Chet quickly passed flew by Stephen like daggers thrown from a sideshow marksman. They made a silhouette of stuck knives around his head. He could still smell the mixture of charred couch and sash inside his nose. It reminded him of the brush fires started by the farmers in the fall. The same smell that choked the air out of Rutland.

After a long silence, Stephen said, “They are going to know it was us.”

“I know, but I still have the sash and that was what I initially lit, so maybe that will throw them off.”

“The fact that you have a burnt sash is unbelievable Chet. What the fuck?”

“You saw it was an accident.”

“Yes, but you started it, you dumb motherfucker.”

The morning after, with the night’s events still fresh in his mind, Stephen woke up in his room after shoddy sleep. He went downstairs to get something to eat and grab the morning paper. The Saturday paper had the Arts section with music reviews and listings for the clubs that hosted some of Stephen’s favorite bands. His mom had already read the paper. She started telling him the news from front-page headline from the Wisconsin State Journal. FRAT HOUSE FIRE KILLS FIVE! She showed it to him.

“Stephen, when I first read it this morning I had to check your room to make sure you made it home. Weren’t you in Madison last night?” asked his mother.

Stephen didn’t answer.

The rusty Rolodex of Stephen’s mind ground to a halt, and as it did the walls closed in, time slowed, buildings collapsed, mushroom clouds plumed, tsunamis tread a destructive path through happy sunny isles filled with palm trees broken in half. Images in flip books flickered by, and revealed scenes of social decay and the burning of effigies. Stephen woozily noticed the effigies were fashioned after himself and Chet. The blood rush slowed and he again recognized part of his own kitchen, but the floral pattern on the linoleum was different, swimming and breathing.

“Stephen?” his mother asked.

“Yeah mom. I was over there, but I was at a show,” said Stephen.

“Well thank the lord for that. One of the kids was from Rutland, honey. Did you know a Rick? His mother asked. He graduated the year after you at your school.”

The linoleum patterns, like connect-a-dots that disconnected themselves, now shook to chaos.

Stephen found his voice in his throat, it was under his spleen and he asked, “Rick who, mom? Does it say his last name?”

“Alexander. Rick Alexander.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of him,” said Stephen.

“You haven’t heard of him? Your high school had 100 students, how could you have not heard of him? Wasn’t his older brother a football player?”

“Just cos’ the school is small doesn’t mean I know everyone. That is an awful awful story though. I have to get to work.”

“Yes, well the worst part is that they believe it was an arsonist, they think someone started a fire on purpose on the first floor while people were in the house.” His mother explained.

Stephen left the house without looking back. His mind was thumping. How could this happen? We put the fire out. This is a mistake, this isn’t happening for shit’s sake. I’m a murderer. I burnt people. I hang out with a dipshit, the dipshit catches a couch on fire due to his own stupidity, and now I’m a fucking murderer.

As Stephen skated to work, half out of habit, and half not knowing what else to do, he mulled his short life over in his head. He had accomplished nothing, made his mark on nothing, except the charred bodies and families of the 5 young people. His legacy is nothing more than a subtraction, a life lived left of the “lesser than” sign.

There were two cop cars in the restaurant parking lot as Stephen skated up. He went into his washing station and started doing his job, just like any other day. All The dishes were clean. They were sparkling, squeaky clean, but his hands… His hands were bubbling, but not from dishwashing liquid. His hands were marred, his palms were melted wax. He too would suffer from this fire. He hated himself. He hated Chet. He knew the families would need to know what happened, and he thought Chet should pay for his stupidity. He walked out to the dining room with his apron. He stood dazed for a moment until he found where the cops were sitting. He walked up to them and said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Music Isn't Scary

When I was a kid I loved Alice Cooper. He also scared the hell out of me. I was pretty young to be listening to Alice, but there I was, five years old and loving it to death. During the daytime hours I was in awe of "Welcome to My Nightmare", Vincent Price was magnificent, but come dusk, that shit got scary.

Fast-forward to adulthood, yes adulthood.

I have come to the conclusion that music isn’t scary, bands aren’t scary, the mere fact that they are musicians excludes any such notion. We are talking about musical notes and the usually pretty fucking boring people who play them, not “oh my gawd their music is terrifying, have you heard about them, they display carcasses on the stage”. They didn’t kill those animals, someone else did. THEY, are musicians. No one can murder you when they are playing music, it's impossible. Just because musicians aren’t to be trusted doesn’t mean they are scary. From Narcocorridos to Gangsta Rap, to Bach’s Tocatta and Fugue in D minor, music isn’t scary.

Justin Bieber Thoughts.

I was a little too young to go ape shit over Bobby Sherman, but on the other hand I always felt too mature for the Defranco Family. The same sort of dichotomy was needed for the given choice between two rated G movies that my daughter wanted see, Gnomio and Juliet and Never Say Never, The Justin Bieber movie. I never get to see movies, I would probably go see Black Swan if it was up to me, but these were my options. Justin Beiber, as a person is intriguing, and Gnomio and Juliet has a gross version of Crocodile Rock by Nelly Furtado and the appalling Sir Elton, the choice was pretty easy for me. Sadly enough both movies are in 3D. Bummer.
I heavily steered Lucy’s hand by stating that I was going to see Never Say Never, and reminded her that I was her ride. She understood that and fell happily in line. After watching this movie I’m not going to say that I have Beiber fever, but I will say that Justin Bieber is easily better than Lenny Kravitz, and quite possibly better than Vampire Weekend. The movie is a straight up pop-oganda film, you almost get the feeling they are grooming Justin to be a Mayor or something, except for the fact that they didn’t get into his thinking and point of view, I figure he has some, but they just give you a couple facts about his upbringing and leave it at that. The kid does look pretty good in purple, but most importantly he is a drummer. His upbringing is that of a drummer, big points for that. I’ll give him quite a bit of leeway, like I do other drummer/singers like Phil Collins and Karen Carpenter. I give Phil some space, but he has committed treasonous acts upon my sensibilities with songs like It’s No Fun Being an Illegal Alien, and being in a band with a guy that was in Mike and The Mechanics, there are limits to my leeway, but still a little space. I am a song lover and there really is only one song of Justin’s that I like, “You Smile I Smile”. It has a super pretty sentiment, and dang pretty hook, that I’m sure is ripped off from somewhere else, I just can’t place it. That feeling of not being able to place a ripoffed melody is a pretty big compliment. So to recap, I liked the movie, the slo-mo hair flip ruled, and the crazy screaming and crying kids made me mist up. I didn’t like the stylist/best buddy guy at all, but I did really like the vocal coach. Usher ends up kind of looking like a hanger on who has invested some money into Bieber’s career. I didn’t learn much about Justin, but I now have one question for people who hate Justin Bieber: Why?