Bud Smith's Blog: Bud Smith , page 33

The Lemur and the Thief

All his life, he’d been a thief. It was all he knew. He could expertly pick any lock, snake between the sensors of security systems, slip through an army of guards, undetected. But, he was getting old and less nimble, on some days needing a cane for his leg. He knew, It was only a matter of time before they caught him.

But, objects had a hold over him.

Under the cover of darkness he stole shimmering jewels, masterful works of art, invaluable artifacts from ancient ages. Then, he’d limp home, securing his winnings in a large house on the edge of the dark woods.

The thief loved animals almost as much as he loved stealing.

One morning, he went to the zoo and spent some time watching the spotted leopards pace back and forth in their steel cages. He watched the tuxedoed penguins dive into their cool pool. He studied the black bears snoozing on a flat rock outside their fabricated cement cave.

But, the thief was most interested in the monkey room. He stood in there looking in wonder at them. They leapt from tree to tree and reminded him of himself in his youth. He smiled broadly. Off to the side was an even smaller room full of ringtail lemurs. He got quite a kick out of them.

He studied the plaque explaining all about their diets, disposition and natural environment: the rain-forests of Madagascar.

Before he could even explain it, the thief was jimmying the lock, taking a baby lemur out of its cage. It crawled under his armpit into the warmth there.

As he left, the remaining lemurs were bouncing around, screaming in shrill horror and pounding on the bars. They wanted to come too.

The thief trained the lemur. He taught it everything he knew about stealing. The lemur was quite a natural at it. Quick hands. Leaping around like lightning. Scaling drain pipes, coming through heating ducks and ventilation shafts.

The jewels were more abundant than ever. The paintings. The sculptures. Valuable coins and stamps. Ceremonial items from secret crypts forgotten beneath the surface of the earth and housed on display at mammoth commercial museums.

The two of them were inseparable. Most of the time the lemur sat on the thief’s shoulder. It’s ringed tail curled loosely around the thief’s neck, as if it were a fuzzy striped necklace.

The thief was pleased as he filled up his house near the dark woods. The lemur was rewarded well for his part in the burglaries with blackberries and cashews.

The thief taught it about laser alarms. He showed it a complex blueprint of the inside of a sophisticated bank vault. The lemur  just chirped woefully.

“What? What’s the problem, Lemur?” the thief said, impatiently. Already it seemed that his pet was getting tired of the game that they were playing at night. That was unacceptable.

“Look, it’s simple … this will be the last job. We’ll go somewhere nice.  After that, we’ll retire. You’d like that.”

That bank had a very curious thing in its vault. One of the world’s rarest jewels: a glimmering green gem that was so large that the lemur would barely be able to lift it. The thief watched nervously from the shadows, and when the lemur came out of the bank with the massive gem, the thief exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Alexandrite,” he cooed.

He took the gem from the animal, cradled it like a baby.  the lemur shuffled around dissatisfied with his treatment.

The bank wasn’t the last job of course. There were other jobs. There would always be more.

Even the lemur knew that.

Still, they kept stealing. At first, together—then after sometime, the man didn’t even have to get involved anymore, he just send the lemur.

This bothered the lemur and a cold distance grew between the two of them. One day the thief came into the kitchen and found that the lemur was eating his chocolate chip cookies. The thief, like all thieves, was very possessive by nature and scolded the lemur and took the cookies away. This angered the lemur even more, only added to his feeling of resentment towards the thief.

The next day, the thief noticed that some gold doubloons were missing. He went to the jungle conservatory where the lemur lived, wasn’t surprised to see it playing with some of the coins. He thought he had to make an example to the animal of why it shouldn’t mess with his things, so he snatched the coins away, scolded it even harsher, threatening the lemur with the back of his hand, a sharp diamond ring on each finger..

This sent the lemur  into a frenzy and almost caused his razor teeth and claws to be used on the thief. Instead, cooler heads prevailed and the lemur went out the window, made his new home in the trees in the dark woods.

After that, little by little, things disappeared from the thief’s house. He was powerless to stop it. He would come home from a stroll in the park or a chess game at the library and find more of his winnings gone.

Fearful, he went immediately to his safe, checked to see if the Alexandrite remained. It always was. Everything else, the lemur cleared from the house.

The thief was greatly troubled by this, but what could he do? He was forced to stay home and guard his possessions at all times. He sat by the widow looking out at the trees in the woods watching for the lemur.

It was a clever animal. It could get in and out of the house so quickly and it could take whatever it wanted, no matter what precautions the thief took to stop it.

Oh, the precautions were maddening.

Attack dogs. Alarm systems. Motion detectors. Traps. Traps. More traps. The lemur slipped through all of that. It had been taught too well.

Now the thief himself was a like an animal in the zoo, locked in his own home.

Things kept disappearing. One by one. The thief blink ed the couch vanished. The thief yawned, the book case of rare hand scribed texts vanished. Poof.

The thief broke down, sprawled on the marble floor, he wept.

All that was left was the safe and the massive gem. Also, some dust bunnies. The  lemur even took the window panes out, so that the rain washed in. It was thunderstorm season. The storms swept inside. The clouds burst. The electricity lit up the dark woods and made midnight seem briefly like mid day.

The thief laid on his side, gazing through the shell of his empty house.

A feeling began to creep over him that he would not have suspected.

He felt very peaceful. His mind was clear. The thief looked all around him, there wasn’t anything to distract him. For the first time in a long time, he thought about his own life and what it meant and what he could do with it.

The thief let out a sigh of relief.

He went out in the rain to the drugstore and he bought himself a fancy notebook and an expensive pen. He came back to his house, sat Indian style on the cold marble floor. He had decided to make a list of what he ease going to do with his life. He realized that he didn’t want to be a thief anymore. That was number one on his list. There were many things on his list. With each addition, his heart lifted.

Halfway through his list he got, went in the kitchen to get a drink of water from the tap.

When he came back, his fancy notebook and the expensive pen were gone.

The man sat down on the empty floor, cleared his mind and closed his eyes.

For two days, the man stared up at the ceiling. He dreamt occasionally, of lucid, beautiful things.

On the third day, he went to the safe and took out the shimmering green gem and set it on the floor.

He kneeled down in front of it and watched the way that the light made it glow. Then, he spun the gem as if it was a top and watched it twirl at an incredible speed. It appeared as if it was gonna lift off and float through the air of the house.

The man whistled and the Lemur appeared down the hallway.

The thief pointed at the gem.

The lemur sat and watched the gem spin and so did the man. When it wobbled and lost speed and toppled, the man motioned to it.

The lemur walked to the gem, picked it up. It stood there for a moment, set it back down. Then, hopped up the man’s arm. Sat on peacefully his shoulder.

They left together on a plane the following day for  Madagascar. The man was done being a thief, he wanted to bring the lemur back into the rain forest, where he imagined it would be happier.

There in the trees on the edge of the ocean, the man found himself a clear area and he built a hut.

After that the only thing the man ever stole was fish from the sea. The only thing the lemur ever stole was ripe fruit hanging from the trees.

They shared.

Uno Kudo Interview: Christine Conte

Today, I’d like to share an interview with you that I conducted with Christine Conte (CC) a writer I’ve known and followed online since 2005, who has recently had two poems published in Uno Kudo volume 2.

I conducted the interview by email from my desk in New York City beamed all the way to her desk up there in Maine. In the future sometime, maybe we could just teleport to a spot somewhere in the middle (let’s say Niagara Falls) and just shoot the shit in person.

Christine Conte (1968-) was born and raised in Connecticut, and through a very fortunate series of events, ended up in Portland, Maine. Over the years, Christine has published zines, written blogs, worked as a copy editor for the USM Free Press, and interned at Moon Pie Press, a well-respected small poetry publisher in Maine. Most recently, she has two poems published in the art and literature anthology Uno Kudo Vol. 2: Naked.

So, CC, first off thanks for doing this interview. First, let’s talk about your two poems from UK. Can you tell me a little bit about each one please?

“Persephone at Breakfast” is about feelings of regret and guilt after letting yourself be really vulnerable. The negative consequences of getting naked. That ugly morning after- it wasn’t a great idea, but you did it anyway, and now it’s time to beat yourself up about it. Yes, this is based on real events, but dramatized A LOT. I did drop a pomegranate on the floor while berating myself over doing something dumb. The pomegranate led to thoughts of Persephone, which led to the myth’s story of being trapped in Hell during the winter.

“Scenes From a Parallel Universe” was inspired by a Woody Allen short story called “The Whore of MENSA.” It’s in the noir style, a detective investigating a brothel filled with highly intelligent women for hire. It’s a place for men who crave the kind of intellectual conversation they can’t get at home from their trophy wives. They say the brain is our biggest erogenous zone, and my poem just took that idea to the most literal and absurd extreme. I had a lot of fun with the brains/breasts analogy.

here is CC’s poem “Scenes …” followed by the Woody Allen quote that inspired it——————————————–

SCENES FROM A PARALLEL UNIVERSEBy Christine Conte

Will you please stop staring at my brains?

Yes, I’m aware– painfully aware– of how prominent they are.

They’re inescapable, I know, and I try so hard to contain them.

They just seem to have a mind of their own!

I see your attention jumping from right to left hemisphere and back,

finally coming to rest upon my corpus callossum.

Don’t think for a minute I didn’t notice; I did.

So, please stop. No, I am flattered, truly. But frankly it’s tiresome.

Ever since I started developing intellectually, it’s been an issue.

When my standardized test scores came in… oh! What a ruckus!

But my heart aches for my dimmer sisters, watching them vie for attention

from men who are only after one thing: evenings of lively intercourse

and debate over the news of the day and existential philosophy.

The world is unfair, for sure…

Ahem. My eyes are down here, sir.

No, no… it’s not your fault and I can’t blame you, really.

I know you don’t see brains like mine every day of the week.

They’re real and they’re spectacular. I can’t hide that fact.

But if you would only look a lot less deeply, you would see

I’m not just a piece of gray matter.

————————–

“Red flocked wallpaper and a Victorian decor set the tone. Pale, nervous girls with black-rimmed glasses and blunt-cut hair lolled around on sofas, riffling Penguin Classics provocatively. A blonde with a big smile winked at me, nodded towards a room upstairs, and said, ‘Wallace Stevens, eh?’”

—- Woody Allen, “The Whore of Mensa”

I like how you blend what you do with what Woody Allen started there. That’s a very cool way to go about making your own art. A reaction to someone else’s.   What’s your writing process like?

It’s a very sudden and usually short-lived form of demonic possession. I get an idea- either spontaneously, or inspired by something I see or hear- and I just write until I’m spent. When I have a particular scene in mind, I write it before I lose it, and then fill in the rest around it. I’m very linear about most things in life, but writing is definitely not linear for me. It’s fragmented and piecemeal. I always struggle with plot and wrapping up a story is really hard for me. Not sure I could do a novel, but a serialized version of a longer story appeals to me. That’s probably what my biggest project will end up being. Discipline would be great.

Tell me about Maine, what’s it like where you live?

I love Maine! I’ve been here just about 7 years now. It’s a beautiful place, with a slower pace that suits my nervous system. I’m a super-introvert and get overwhelmed by too many people and too much stimulation. Portland is the best place I’ve ever lived. It’s big enough to be interesting and artsy, but small enough that there’s no traffic and you never feel lost in a crowd. Portland is all about bicycles, food, and dogs. I just need a dog and I’ll be a whole Portlander. Sometimes I’ll be driving around town and feel overwhelmed by how much I love it here.

Do you think living in New England gives you ideas?

Definitely. New England is old. It has history. It has a vibe. Maine in particular has a distinct vibe- there’s a certain creepiness that is, I think, I hope, mostly harmless. Stephen King never made much sense to me until I moved here. Now I’m a big fan. I have a few stories in the works that take place in a fictitious Maine universe where the creepiness is turned up to 11. I like to cut the creepiness with some humor, though. I don’t take myself that seriously. Christopher Moore is a writer whose writing is dark and macabre but very funny. I like that.

I whole heartedly agree with that creepy New England sentiment. My aunts house in New Hampshire was probably haunted. You ever come across that kinda thing up there?

We often joke around that our house is haunted. It’s one of the oldest houses in town. Weird noises at night, the occasional odd vibe. We call our alleged ghost The Captain, because the landlady told us a sea captain built the house. We got a shot glass with a pirate on it, and we’ll sometimes pour a shot of rum for The Captain. Too many times I’ve thought Matt was sneaking up on me, really felt a presence, but nobody was there.

  What’s been your proudest moment?

I finally got my bachelor’s degree last year! I went to college right out of high school. When I was 19, I dropped out and transferred to the University of Poor Choices, with a double major in Poverty and Shitty Jobs. I also minored in Photography and Writing, which were extremely satisfying.

When you went back to college was it like that Rodney Dangerfield movie, “Back to School”?

Hahahaha! No, hardly. I didn’t quite have his resources, and I wasn’t so obviously old and out of place. I don’t really look my age, so I mostly blended in. Never lied about my age if anyone asked, but I definitely kept it on the down low. It was kind of a culture shock, though. Kept reminding myself, I was once 19 and clueless, too. 19 and clueless was precisely why I was in my 40′s and still trying to finish college.

What’s been the weirdest thing you’ve seen?

Years ago, I was in a diner with my friend Dawn. At the next table, there was a family- grandma, mom, son, and daughter. The boy was maybe 9, the girl maybe 7. The boy was kinda cranky and whiny, pushing the food around his plate, pissing his mother off. She was harping on him for a while, nagging him to eat his dinner and stop whining. Suddenly, she’s had enough and yells “STATUE OF THE CRANE! STATUE OF THE CRANE!” The boy hangs his head in shame, stands up, and assumes the position right in the middle of the diner. So there he is, standing on one foot, his knee up high, his arms raised. Grandma, mom, and sister just keep eating like nothing unusual was going on. She made him stand like that until they were done eating, probably 10-15 minutes. It was disturbing. I also once saw a guy in a pink bunny costume riding a motorcycle.

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3109/3160599810_5db2724b9b.jpg

What kinds of jobs have you had?

I worked in the photo lab business for close to 20 years, but digital photography killed that industry a few years back. I’ve also been (in no particular order) a McDonald’s cashier, a Hallmark store cashier, a bank teller, a radio station receptionist, an ad agency administrative assistant, a Wal-Mart cashier, an ice cream shop scooper, a copy editor, a library assistant, a nursing assistant, and a customer service rep. I’ve done a lot of things, observed a lot of people. People-watching is always fodder for writing. Everything gets stored away in the mental file cabinet.

Working at Walmart had to be interesting. Tell me about that.

If you can endure your body and soul being devoured whole on a daily basis, it’s a rich source of writing fodder. I actually worked there on two separate occasions, entirely out of desperation. The most recent time, my co-workers included an ex-carny, a little person, and a legally blind guy who assembled grills and bicycles. You can’t make that shit up, and I haven’t even gotten to the customers yet. Speaking of shit, at least one customer defecated in the store each week. I mean, right out in the open, like in the middle of the aisle next to the kitchen tools. Just dropped trou and squatted right there. And even the ones who make it to the bathroom go on the floor or in the sink. I have to wonder what the thought process is, what makes this the best available option.

  Where in Connecticut did you grow up?

West Haven. It’s best known for sandy beaches, political corruption, and lots and lots of Italians. Kids from other towns called it “Waste Haven”. I once met a friend-of-a-friend in a bar, and he said to me, “You’re from West Haven? But your hair. It’s so… small!” The only thing I really miss about West Haven- and Connecticut in general- is the pizza. Mainers just can’t make apizza right. Joe Saldibar of Uno Kudo comes from West Haven, too, but we didn’t know each other until Facebook a few years ago. He probably misses New Haven pizza, too.

What’s New Haven pizza like?

It’s like the smile of an angel, but edible.

Ever been arrested?

Not yet!

Ever been seriously injured?

I fell off a pool slide and broke my elbow when I was 6. The ER doctor asked me if someone hurt me, but I really did fall off the slide. My mom was immensely pissed when I told her that.

What are you interested in that would surprise people who think they know you?

It’s a weird interest, and morbid to most people, but I’ve always been fascinated by old graveyards. They’re places where you can get an education in the humanities- history, art, religion, anthropology. The art of old gravestones is pretty amazing. Connecticut has some graveyards dating back to the 1600′s, but Maine wasn’t populated until much later, so there’s not much to see here. Evergreen Cemetery here in Portland, though, was designed according to romantic Victorian ideals- a beautiful park meant for lingering and reflecting quietly, that Victorian image of the mourner plucking petals off flowers at a loved one’s grave. I don’t find it morbid at all.

Tell me about your daily life.

I live with my darling boyfriend Matt in an old house built in 1807. We’ve lived here three and a half years, and we love the neighborhood, if not always the upstairs neighbors. One day while doing yard work I found a Bruins hockey puck, signed in silver paint marker by Ray Bourque #77, in the bushes outside. I looked around, and then up, and saw a puck-shaped hole in the upstairs kitchen window. Those kids were a huge pain in the ass. Anyway, I read and write a lot, am into all kinds of domestic stuff (knitting, sewing, crocheting, cooking, baking), and have a shop on Etsy where I sell my crafts. Still struggling to find gainful post-college employment. I work in customer service on second shift right now, and expect to be laid off at any time. I hope the whole writing thing works out some decade.

What kinda stuff did you copy edit.

My college’s student newspaper. Mostly music reviews, opinion pieces, and sports. It was a good experience. I learned a lot about the writer-editor relationship. Some writers can’t stand being corrected, even if you can point to an entry in the AP style book that explains the rule. Others are very appreciative and just want their piece to be as good as it can be. Gentle diplomacy goes a long way in life.

What are your plans for 2013? Are you working on a book?

Getting published in Uno Kudo in 2012 was a huge accomplishment, and I hope to do much more this year. I have any number of unfinished stories in the works, and hope to finish at least some of them. I’ve been wanting to publish a literary magazine of my own. It would probably be online, as much as I love print. 2013 may be the year for that. I used to publish a humor zine called Postmodern Toad back in the 90′s. I miss that. My eyes are on Uno Kudo 3, too.

I love zines, hand made ones, they really do it for me. I send submissions to them sometimes. Places like Citizens for Decent literature made by Michele McDannold, the Filth, the Idiom by Mark Brunetti, Martha Grovers excellent Somnambulist out of Portland … What interests you about zines?

I’m not too familiar with the current state of zine culture, so I’ll have to check those out. But the 90′s were a great time to be creative and have access to a copy machine. Factsheet 5 was a major zine that reviewed zines. It was THE source. My zine was reviewed in F5 a few times, and people from all over saw it and sent me their zines to trade. I love getting mail, and it was so much fun to see what other people were thinking and doing. Self-publishing fascinates me- bypassing The Man and doing it yourself. Getting your ideas out in the rawest form, cut-and-paste layouts, crazy Dover clip-art, hand-drawn cartoons, rants and reviews and conspiracy theories. There was a zine for every occasion and every philosophy. Obviously, there were some zines I didn’t care for, but that says more about me than the people who made them. I always respect people who do creative things, even when I don’t get it.

What would your zine be like if you made one today?

My old zine was all cut-and-paste, because I didn’t have desktop publishing software to lay out the pages. Just printed out the text in columns from MS Word or whatever I was using. Glue sticks and scissors. My bosses let me use their copy machine, I just had to buy my own paper. So it was pretty cheap to do. Print everything out, collate, staple. If I did a print zine today, the layout would be a lot more streamlined. I would probably find somebody who prints on inexpensive newsprint. Print-on-demand would be ideal, so I wouldn’t have to pay up front. I know lulu doesn’t do anything like that, but somebody must.

What would your website be like? Have you thought of a name? What would you look for?

For Senior Project, we Media Studies majors each had to create an online portfolio showcasing our work. Mine had writing and photography. The writing was mostly stuff I wrote for classes. That portfolio is on a free site. That’s about all I have for a website. I do own the domain christineaconte.com, but haven’t done anything with it.

When you say, “if the writing thing works out some decade” where do you see yourself if it does work out. What would you want to do if you could?

Realistically, I’d be happy to make some money from writing. Haven’t been able to quantify exactly how much “some” means, though. I need to set some solid goals.

That’s a noble and totally achievable goal! I’ve known you since 2005, we’ve never met in person. Will we meet in 2013?

I hope so!

Also of note: Uno Kudo submissions for Volume 3 are open: send your poetry, fiction, non-fiction and artwork to unokudo@gmail.com

The Editor

They sat around an oblong table in the shell of an abandoned building. They had to operate in secrecy because of their extreme M.O. Piles of 8×10 papers were scattered everywhere, empty Chinese food containers stained some of those unlucky and much unloved sheets.

The editors had an archaic system. Off to the side in a neat stack, were submissions with purple Post-it notes paper-clipped to them, signifying them as potential acceptances that required rewrites. In another pile, orange Post-its were clipped to signify outright acceptances.

That was all hammered out. They had all the stories and poems they were looking for.

This meeting was to discuss the pile of rejections still standing on the table. One of those rejections would be selected and the author would be dealt with. In person.

It was late, the editors all had dayjobs in the morning. A row of drained wine bottles were piled against the plastic garbage bin. Cigarette smoke loomed. Jenn clicked her pen, repeatedly.

“This one right here was the worst of them,” Charlie said, shaking a stapled batch of papers together.

“Which was that?” Jenn asked.

“The one about the ghost that falls in love with the lawnmower.”

Walter laughed as he leaned back in his chair, “That was pretty bad, but not the worst,” he held up his example.

It was a poem about a topless vampire who had a pet Dragonbird.

“This is the worst,” Walter remarked.

“It is,” Blaire confirmed, and since she was the head editor, her decision carried a lot of weight.

“So, then … is that the one?”

No one said anything. It was a lofty decision carrying significant consequences for the writer of the Dragonbird poem.

“It is,” Jenn finally admitted.

They took a quick vote. It was voted that the Dragonbird poem was the absolute bottom of the barrel from the submissions sent for consideration.

“It’s your turn,” Blaire said to Walter.

Walter sighed. He nodded. She took the revolver out of her purse and passed it across the table to him.

“Where do I have to go?”

Jenn read the cover page … “You’ll have to go see Sheila Goan-Penderstone in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.” Jenn wrote the name and address on a sheet of paper. Then she clipped a red Post-it to the poem, passed that over too.

“Uggghhh,” Walter said. It was a far drive: ten plus hours. He stood up from the oblong table, tucked the gun in his waistband, “Off I go.”

The editors said, in near unison, “thank you, Walter.”

They believed in what they were doing with all their hearts.

Walter drove fast to the west in his beaten up Volkswagon. He stopped to use the restroom in a truck-stop, getting a cup of coffee and an egg salad sandwich from the all-night diner.

In a booth, alone, he briefly questioned what he was about to do. That was to be expected. He’d been through this many times over the years. To combat his doubt, he took out the laminated card that he kept in his wallet, read it again.

Call for Submissions: Please send your best work to ______ Journal. We are currently looking for fiction, non fiction and poetry across all genres as long as there is an emphasis on quality and artful wonder. Our goal as a press is two fold: to publish the best and brightest that we come across; and to discourage bad, sloppy, writing by murdering the author of the worst submission that we receive each submission cycle. Current payment for acceptance is $___ per word. Send your work—double spaced, with a cover letter including name, address and a brief bio to us at the following email: ____________

Walter put the card away quickly as the waitress came with his sandwich. He’d asked for rye bread. The toast was plain white bread. The gun felt heavy in his pocket. He bit into the sandwich, uncaring. His eyes were blank as he stared straight ahead, the egg salad fell into his beard. His hands shook as he wiped his chin with the napkin.

The author of the Dragonbird poem, Shelia Goan Penderstone lived in a little blue house surrounded by dark woods. Walter drove past, very slowly, noting that there was only one car in the driveway and no garage. Walt shut off his headlights, parked his Volkswagon in the woods, out of sight. He pulled a ski mask over his head and crept quietly through the woods, coming into the backyard under the full moon. He peered into the back windows for some sign of a dog. Seeing nothing, he tried the window. He wasn’t surprised to find that it was unlocked. Writers are stupid.

Climbing in, he adjusted to the sounds of the house. Waiting again. He didn’t worry if she was alone. The writers usually lived alone, it was a common thread among all of them he’d killed. As his eyes adjusted, he became conscious of breathing in the room.

She was in an EZ chair, sleeping under a quilt with an American flag being gripped by a golden eagle.

Walter flipped on the light.

She didn’t wake.

He looked at her face. Wrinkled. Thin purple lips. Dentures removed. A slight mustache above the upper lip.

She began to snore slightly. That was enough. He shook her. She woke up screaming at the pot bellied man in the ski mask.

“Be quiet,” he commanded.

Shelia was full of wild panic. She kept squirming farther and farther away up the EZ chair. Soon it would tip.“

Stop that,” he said, pulling out the gun.

She froze. That always worked.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“You know who I am.”

“I can guess,” Shelia said, “But I don’t wanna believe it.”

“I’m the editor.”

She sighed heavily, at the end of the sigh slipped out a wounded whimper of realization. “Oh … I don’t want to accept it. There must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake,” Walter said.

“I’m a good writer. I’ve been writing my whole life! People tell me I’m good!”

“They lied to you.”

“I’ve been published a lot! One of my poems won a contest!”

“Be quiet,” he said, “It’s been done. You knew the consequences. You read the directions. You submitted. You were the worst.”

Shelia shook her head in resistance, “I couldn’t have been the worst. I’m a great writer.”

“They all say that, you know.”

The gunshot woke the cat who was sleeping on the bed upstairs.

Walter drove out of Pittsburg, his hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. There was blood on his white checkered dress shirt. He disposed of that in a gas station garbage can, choosing to wear his undershirt the rest of the ride.  He tore up the red post it note with Shelia’s information and promised himself to forget all about her. Just another rejection. Nothing personal.

Closer to home, the sun coming up, he called into his work and told his boss at the factory that he would be out sick.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just sick,” he said.

“We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, yes.”

Walter placed the phone into the cradle, closed his eyes: imagined he had made literature a little better, somehow, in his small way.

Fact Dump: published poems, stories and news

It’s Thursday night and I’m over here getting ready to record some poems set to some music that I wrote a long long time ago. I’m recording the poems so that I can listen to them in the car while I drive back and forth to my job at the refinery and do two things with them 1) memorize them for readings, cause they’re more fun to perform that way and 2) figure out how I’m going to revise any or all of them for a book of poetry I’d like to put together.

So that’s what’s up. But there’s more …

A link to a short story up at Connotation Press called “The Typewriter” about a troubled teen who gets his hands on an Underwood that can do anything
A link to a radio program that featured one of my spoken word poems “Love in the Warzones of the Wild” at approx. 5:05 … the show is called Wednesday Night Service and is run by the Literary Underground, a great small press art collective that does zines and readings.
A poem called “It Snows” running at Fictionaut

Also of note … I have copies of Or Something Like That in my apartment again … so, if anyone would like a copy, hit me up. I’ve been signing them, because people seem to like that kind of thing.

One last thing … the rewrites for the novel F-250 were finished and if anybody wants to beta read it for me … reach out.

Thanks for reading and being cool as ice.

Bud

Vinyl Records and Rewrites

My girl came home the other day with a travel record player tucked under her arm. A Crosley. It looks like a little green suitcase. She came into the room where I do my writing and sat down in the red chair next to my desk. 

We set the record player up on the new book case that I built last week … now all those old vinyl records that I’ve bought over the years aren’t just for decoration out in the living room. She has some her own, left over from her days at art school in Providence, Rhode Island. 

I got such a kick looking through them all and couldn’t believe how many great ones we have. All the Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin albums that I love … plus tons of others, The Cars, Black Sabbath, Bob Dylan, Mile Davis, Otis Redding …

Now, I sit at my desk and I flip the record over when it ends. It’s winter time and I come home from my day job at the oil refinery and I listen to records while I work on edits.

I’m a happy man.

Last year was a lot of work. All the writing. I wrapped up three novels by the end of the year, now I’ve got to tie up loose strings with the editing. I couldn’t think of a better way to do it then soundtracked by “Let it Bleed” or “Physical Graphiti”

There’s a lot of work left to do, especially if I’m going to hit my deadlines … but, the record player is right there and I don’t even have to get up to flip to side B. So that saves me a lot of time.

Hope your winter is going good too. Have some fun.

Bud

Uno Kudo Interview: Gus Sanchez

Today, I’d like to post an interview I conducted with Uno Kudo writer Gus Sanchez, who’s two stories were published in Vol. One and Volume Two of Uno Kudo’s art meets lit. yearly anthology.

Gus Sanchez is a friend of mine originally from Queens, now living in the American south. Whether I’m talking to him on the phone, via text or reading his blog, one thing seems to shine through the conversation and that is his pursuit of information pertaining to “becoming a better writer” the craft of it, the implement of new techniques. He posts about writing and other interest at his site Out Where the Buses Don’t Run, which got it’s name from an episode of Miami Vice … but as far as I know, Gus doesn’t own a white blazer or a handgun or have a mullet or a speedboat, whatever.

Gus Sanchez is a writer. Not an “aspiring writer”. A writer.

I think a lot of people can relate to how Gus feels about wanting to improve. We shot some questions back and forth and talked about his process, his love of music and his creative output over the last few years.

Werd.

At one time in his life, Gus Sanchez wanted to be a lawyer. Then a drummer for a jazz/funk band. He even entertained being the leader of his own cult, but abandoned it due to a lack of interest on his part. When he’s not busy selling his soul to corporate devils or bitching about dead lawns or griping about the laundry not putting itself away, Gus is hard at work at (finally) completing his first novel, which he hopes to have ready for publication sometime before 2013 ends. Gus Sanchez is a liberal living in the thick of Republican country (Charlotte, NC), along with his wife Jaime and daughter Sophia. And, for the last time, that was not him streaking naked through the cafeteria at St. John’s University, as much as he would love for you to believe it was him.

Bud: First off, you’ve been working on a novel, about superheroes, or specifically a super hero. Tell me about that.

It’s about a superhero who must break free from the clutches of his arch-nemesis and rescue both his girlfriend and all of mankind. It’s also about a man who’s in the throes of a schizophrenic episode, and the only way he seems to cope with his psychosis is to imagine himself as a superhero. So the novel has a parallel storyline: is it about a superhero and his conflict, or it is about this mentally ill man and his conflict?

If you could have a super power what would it be?

I wouldn’t want the super powers, so to speak. Being able to fly, or become invisible is okay, I suppose. What I dig most about, say, Batman or Iron Man, is that they’re self-made. They have all the coolest toys their billions can buy, but really what they most rely on is their mental strength and their advanced intelligence. It’s one thing to simply beat up your enemies. It’s another to outsmart them. So all I want is the ability to outsmart, provided I have a cool jet-copter, or a fancy-dancy suit of armor that I can fly in and go PEW! PEW! with.

Why do you write?

This is my mantra: I write because I am a writer. I write because my very existence depends on it. I write because there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing than write.

So, you’ve written a novel … some short stories … Are you interested in screenplays?

Not so much writing them as much as reading them. Screenplays help to illustrate the importance of dialogue, which is very important for me as a writer. I’ve read every screenplay Tarantino’s written, and I’m amazed by his uncanny ability to use dialogue to drive his stories along.

What’s your writing process like?

I start with a sketch, and that’s often involving me writing longhand. I’ve filled notebooks up with lengthy scenes and ideas. Once I get something I like going, I’ll commit it to disk, using Scrivener, which allows me to see the edits and drafts I’ve compiled so far.I’m also pretty ritualistic when it comes to writing. If it’s just me and my notebook, then it doesn’t matter where I am. But if my story is taking off, and I’m in the throes of 2,000-3,000 words, where I’m writing is important. Either I’m at my desk at home, or my local Starbucks. Regardless, there’s a playlist I’ll listen to that I’ve compiled solely for this novel, and plenty of caffeine to keep me going.

You’re always talking about music … Do you find direct connection between music and your writing itself. You made a playlist to write you novel to, tell me about that?

I’m auditory stimulated. Music is my muse, and I pick up a lot of my writing cues from songs and lyrics. Besides, I can’t write in total silence. Sometimes I’ll want the sound of people talking when I write dialogue, so I’ll listen to podcasts. But for the most part, I listen to music when I write, always.

I put together a playlist of 18 songs that directly and indirectly helped me get inside my characters’ heads. I’ll give you a couple of examples: one song on that playlist is Iggy and the Stooges’ “Search and Destroy.” My main character is a charming asshole who tends to walk a fine line between chaos and genius. He’s sort of the hit-first, then ask-questions-later kind of superhero. I figured my hero needs a theme song, and what better song is there for a possibly unhinged superhero than this gem from one of the most unhinged bands, fronted by one of the most unhinged lead singers ever?

There’s another song on that list by a band called Au Revoir Simone called “Shadows,” which I’m using as a POV from the protagonist’s ex-wife. Despite the fact they’ve divorced, there’s still some unresolved feelings – lots of bitterness not towards each other but against the circumstances that drove them apart. The chorus of this songs goes “I’m moving on/I hope you’re coming with me/’Cause I’m not that strong/Don’t blame it on your shadows/’Cause I know all about you.” I won’t give away what happens, but hearing this song put me inside her head and her longing for a different time in her life.

I’m writing this right now, and listening to Led Zeppelin’s “Physical Graffiti,” by the way

Writing takes time. It’s all stumbles and falls and getting back up again. Practice. It’s practice … Tell me about your failures at attempting to write a manuscript in the past.

I wrote an entire manuscript about 15 years ago. It’s pure shit. I still have it, in a storage box in the garage. The biggest takeaway for me is how little I really knew about writing then. I didn’t know the golden rule of “show, don’t tell,” so those ill-fated manuscripts had a lot of expository prose that never seemed to go anywhere. I wasn’t exposed to a lot of writing groups, and I didn’t feel my writing was strong enough for me to apply for a spot in creative writing programs in New York. But that was insecurity talking.

It was only until 8 years ago that I met an editor who was running a writer’s critique group, who helped me understand the fundamentals I was lacking. That saying that you can’t teach writing? She proved that wrong.

What’s different with your process or mindset now then it was then, when the writing wasn’t coming smooth?

Up until this year, my writing process was pretty haphazard, as in I wrote when inspired. I suppose that was something of a fallout from blogging so much throughout the years. I was a pretty lazy writer, let’s put it that way. But I got myself into the habit of writing daily, whether it was in the morning, during lunch breaks (great time to write, as you no doubt know) or late at night. One thing that’s also helped my writing a great deal is to stick to one project at a time, which, for someone with mild ADD like I have, is pretty challenging, but I stuck through it. I write a lot of short pieces, but since I decided to finally shit and write this damned novel that’s been brewing in my head for the better part of a year, I made that my primary focus, with the exception of “Room 505,” which came together organically and rather quickly.

When I’m writing the first draft, I’ll write it out long-hand. This way, it just come all out, without the urge to hit the Delete key. Some people think writing long-hand is crazy, but I like the freedom of pen and paper.

You’ve had a few stories published by Uno Kudo. Tell me about your short story Room 505 that appears in Volume 2:


“Room 505″ is the story of two people who are damaged in their own ways, who meet by chance. The man in the story is in the midst of reacting negatively to changes taking place in his life. The woman is reacting to the news that she’s dying. They meet by accident, and, as quickly as they meet, they soon walk away from each other, but what happens in the end is what makes the story. For me, at least.Most of it was a result of my frustration with my career, especially where I was when I first drafted it, around November of 2011. The whole bit about his terrible relationship with his new manager was me, in a nutshell. I came this close to actually writing that resignation later he writes in the story.

The part about the trip to Houston was a recollection of a business trip to Houston back in 1998. That was actually a pleasant experience, and the hotel I described in the short story is the Hyatt Regency. It’s one of those 70s-era ones with the open format, where you come out of your room and you can see down to the lobby. Perfect for someone who wants to throw themselves off the ledge. If I’m not mistaken, I think that’s actually happened, but I can’t recall where. That was me sitting at the bar at the hotel one night, watching a ballgame and eating nachos, all on the company dime. Actually, there’s a pretty funny story to this: because the company I worked for allowed its employees to comp all alcoholic beverages provided there was a meal included in the bill, I ordered some nachos and a Shiner Bock on draft. And another, and another. Apparently I’d stayed at the bar watching an entire ballgame and chatting with the bartender – I remember we were debating on who was the bigger trash talker on the basketball court, Michael Jordan or Larry Bird – and when he called closing time at 11pm, he handed me the bill – I’d downed 12 pints of Shiner in 4 hours! And I wasn’t even drunk. How the hell did you let me drink so much, I asked the bartender. He figured I was staying at the hotel, and not driving anywhere, so what the hell. He got a fat tip for his presence of mind.

The woman in the story was someone I came across during a stay in Hilton Head, SC. The exchange the dying woman and the man have in the elevator was the same exchange, verbatim, I had with this woman at the elevator at the hotel I was staying. I later saw her that morning eating breakfast alone, looking as if she was carrying the burden of some terrible news. I imagined something horrible, like a death of a loved one, or learning she has months to live. Oddly enough, she looked like Joan Didion when she was younger. At first, I gasped, thinking it was Joan Didion, and then realizing, nah, she’s too young to be her, without noticing the woman in the elevator was getting impatient.

You call yourself a cubicle monkey. I’ve never had a desk job in my life. What’s it like?

Yeah, it’s a badge of honor, or dishonor, I guess. Because I work in information technology (which I’ve been doing so reluctantly for the past 17 years), I’m often assigned to a cubicle. Also, because I’m in information technology, I work freelance, so there’s an unwritten rule that freelancers aren’t given offices, just a desk with three-and-a-half walls. The pay’s great, and I pride myself in being good at what I do, but I know I’d rather be doing something else.You’re not missing anything, by the way, because you’ve never had a desk job. There’s a huge part of me that says I should quit being a cube monkey and go work construction, since I’m good with my hands; I’m no slouch with heavy tools, and I’ll put my cursing skills up against any hard-hat schmuck from Staten Island.

What’s been your worst job?

Right out of college, I took a job working as a sales rep for a building construction supplier. Selling contractors and sub-contractors ceiling tile, floor tile, black iron, drywall, plaster, you name it. Totally fucking hated the gig, but one of my best friends worked for the same company, different branch, and heard there was an opening, so he put in a good word for me. I took the job because frankly, the phone wasn’t ringing, and i really wasn’t busting my ass trying to land a job in the legal field – I was a pre-law major in college. Anyway, the job sucked in the regard that no one showed me the ropes, I had to learn everything myself, I fucked orders up frequently, and when I finally started figuring things out and cold-called enough contractors to win some new business for myself, the branch manager decided he was going to give these new accounts to his senior sales reps. He wanted me to just take orders. That branch manager was a cunt, pure and simple, a dishonest twat. The office manager was a born-again Jehovah’s Witness who bummed smokes from me all the time, and when he finally did buy me a pack of cigarettes, he bought me a cheap pack of no-name smokes. Plus, he was also a dishonest prick. The accounts payable manager rode my ass all the time about why I should bust my ass and learn the ropes so I could earn a lucrative living as a salesman. There’s great money in sales, she said. Why would you want to be a lawyer?

The worst of the bunch were the sales guys. That senior salesman was a shit stain named Dennis Murphy who never hesitated to tell anyone within earshot that he had cancer and probably didn’t have much to live, all the while saying this with a cigarette in his mouth. He put his arm around me my first day and said, “Kid, stick with me and I’ll show you how to work this game.” And show me he did. His con game was stealing clients from other sales reps so he could earn their commission, then claim he needed to build a savings fund for his family to live on after he died. Turns out the mother fucker was thrice-divorced and up to his ass and elbows in alimony payments. He pissed off one new sales rep so bad, he was told he’d have his cancer-ridden ass kicked across Long Island City if he ever stole another account again. But Dennis raked in big bucks, and that’s why he got away with fucking all the sales reps, me included.

It got so bad I swear at one point I was at half a pack of Marlboro Lights and 4 cups of coffee by 10AM each morning.

I don’t know why I didn’t just up and quit. The job was totally wrong for me, but I gutted it out for 4 1/2 months until I finally got fed up and handed in my resignation. That shit eater of a branch manager decided to fire me on the spot instead. I didn’t care. I’ve been fired from other jobs since, and I never sweat it, because I know i’ve been fired from worse jobs; this was that worst job.

What’s the strangest thing that ever happened to you at work?

First, a little backstory: for a while – say, 18 months – I wasn’t working as a cube monkey, and doing real work, in this case working as a maintenance tech for a senior living community. It wasn’t a retirement home or assisted living; the seniors were still active and didn’t require any medical attention, so we rented apartments to them. Since it was Section 8 friendly, this community was pretty much in demand for seniors in the area, and there was at least a 2-year waiting list for apartments. As such, residents were required to undergo a Housing and Urban Development (HUD) inspection from the local HUD office so they could continue qualifying for Section 8 housing.

I liked working there, though. The residents were nice, if a bit unruly at times. The elderly can be like children sometimes, so I found myself, along with the property manager – who also happened to be my mother-in-law – having to play lion tamer with a few residents bickering over bullshit like someone’s TV being too loud. Still, it was a pretty rewarding job; we did a lot for the residents in terms of providing them with social activities – I ran Tuesday Night Bingo for a few months; man, that was some cutthroat shit! – and if a resident needed a lift to run some errands or even visit the doctor, I’d offer them a ride. I was friendly with a few. Two come to mind: one was Margaret, who, let’s say, was around the block several hundred times. She ran with some fast company, and looked the part. Rode hard and left wet, if you know what I mean. She could be be pretty snide at time, but deep down inside she was a softie, and we got along fabulously, if only because we were both terribly cynical about everything. She’d died suddenly, and it broke my heart. Another resident was Henry, total life of the party. Ex-Navy, quick with a joke, long with a story, first to offer his help with just about everything. After a while, I’d let him tag along; I “groomed” him as my replacement when I decided to go back to life as a cube monkey. But Henry was a chronic gambler, and his gambling addiction got him killed a year or so ago; he was on his way to a casino, speeding, when he collided with another vehicle that was also speeding, killing him instantly. Henry was a good man with a good heart, but I hated that he could never walk away from his addiction. I knew someday his addiction would be the end of him, but when it came, it devastated me.

It wasn’t the most demanding job – I worked maybe 20-30 hours per week – and it entailed me doing stuff like landscaping and changing the lightbulbs out, or renovating an apartment once we got a vacancy so it could become move-in ready. More often than not the residents that vacated left the apartments in very good condition, but on occasion we had a few incidents. One resident, a paranoid schizophrenic, pulled a “midnight run” and broke her lease; when I went to inspect the apartment, she’d managed to duct-tape every air duct and electrical outlet, and had even glued the windows shut! It took me 6 days non-stop to get that apartment even cleaned out, let’s not even talk about painting it!

Anyway, that’s not the weirdest thing that happened during this job. Remember what I’d been saying about the HUD apartment inspections? Well, there was a resident named Bill, nice man, bit of a doofus with a terrible case of generalized anxiety disorder, not to mention all kinds of ailments; he was 55, but he looked 20 years older. I reminded him that Loren (the guy from HUD – who, by the way, was like some outdoorsy hunk sort of guy, the kind of guy you’d find modeling in an LL Bean catalogue, and let me tell you, when the ladies learned Loren was coming, you’ve never seen elderly ladies get so dolled up so quick!) and I were going to be inspecting his apartment Tuesday afternoon, so don’t forgot. He nodded, yeah, yeah, I won’t forget. He was a forgetful bastard.

Tuesday came, and I knock on his door. I can hear his TV, so I know he’s home, but he won’t answer. After a few more knocks, I let myself in with the master key, and find Bill asleep on his recliner.

“Hey Bill, wake up!”

Bill is ice cold, his skin is blue. There’s no telling how long Bill had been dead. It took every ounce of strength in me not to freak the fuck out. Loren, on the other hand, yeah, this was old hat for him. He calmly advised me to inform the property manager – my mother in law, who had the day off – and call 911. The worst was having to explain to the residents who saw the cops and the EMTs pull his body into the ambulance that Bill had died. No way I could explain my way out of that one.

Ugh. I got chills just writing this.

Where are you from? Where’d you grow up?

I was born and raised in NYC. A true New Yorker in a sense; born in the city of New York, county of New York, state of New York. But I was raised in Elmhurst, Queens.

What are your BIG books. And what’s the single book that’s had the biggest influence on your own writing.

My mom instilled in me this love for reading. I never saw her without a book. She was the one that marched me down to the library and got me my first library card, and corrupted me ever since. I remember thinking I was such an adult because I was reading Agatha Christie when I was 10 years old, even if about 70% of what was going on was going over my head.

I don’t know if any single book’s had the biggest influence on my writing. I’ve gone through phases where I’ve tried to emulate certain writers. At one point, I was trying to write like Thomas Pynchon, all elliptical and bordering on paranoiac, and clearly going nowhere with it. Then I read David Foster Wallace’s “Infinite Jest,” and thought, fuck it, DFW did it better, so I better stop now.

I seem to be more influenced by short story writers. Raymond Carver is a gigantic influence for me. He taught me the importance of being economical with words. John Cheever, Flannery O’Connor, as well. Right now, Junot Diaz is my biggest influence, and I really love that he’s close to my age – he’s 3 years older than me – and we’re both Latino, and we wear our nerd hearts on our sleeves. “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” was a revelation to me in that Diaz was able to marry so much of what makes genre so demanding (the insistence on fantastical accuracy, if that makes sense) with the character development that’s so crucial to literary fiction. When I read that novel, I thought, finally, someone gets it. You can write genre AND literary fiction at the same time, and not lose what makes both important. His new collection of short stories is simply a gut-punching knockout, and he’s working on a 80′s-themed apocalyptic novel that sounds like it’s going to be hilarious and terrifying and brilliant all at once. I’m gushing, so I’ll stop.

So I guess I take back what I said about a single book being an influence?

Do you think you’ve grown as a writer since writing for Uno Kudo? And starting up your own blog OUT WHERE THE BUSES DON’T RUN?

Absolutely. Being around like-minded writers has been a massive shot in the arm for me. When I see my fellow contributors succeed, it only spurs me to want to pursue my own successes.

The Map Behind Miles Davis

“… alright, college isn’t for you either,” Nomi says, “come see me, then. I don’t dance anymore. I drive a cab now, free rides up and down the electric strip, little sis.”

The connection on the phone was weak. The utility company doesn’t maintain these lines here. This is a war zone. Hazards of ghetto life. Naomi sounded like she was talking to me from a distant pulsing star. I imagined her engulfed in blinding white light. It’s grey and rainy in Camden, I heard a gunshot outside. There are never police sirens after the gunshots. “Seriously … come,” she said brightly.

“I want to,” I said, no longer tearing up, feeling stronger. “I almost have the truck running.” I was trying to fix a pickup I’d found with tools that belonged to my father who I’d lost.

“Really, es tan bueno! But be careful at that place, V,” Naomi says, meaning the junkyard, “watch your back, mi hermana.”

Naomi, who’d been lucky enough to get out of Camden, younger than me. Still … she’d been raped in a parking lot outside a daycare center in Glendale, California. Dusk. Night birds flying, scouting out the wayward insects beneath the streetlights.

“California?” I’d said aloud, hearing that. All I could picture was palm trees and blue skies. They could hurt you there too?

When I was nine years old, I was shot twice. Once in the lower back. Once in the wrist. Bullets passing right through me and the park. I still cannot make a fist with my left hand. It’s hard for me to put on my bra behind my back. Some days, I have to ask my grandmother for help. She’s disabled below the waist.  I just can’t make a proper fist. But that’s OK, I carry a knife with me wherever I go.

I was using my paycheck from the New Jersey turnpike Taco Bell, to pull parts for a Chevy S-10 that I’d found in lower Merion. A nice neighborhood.

They let me keep the truck in the back of the junkyard. The dog there doesn’t even bark at me. He’s the only  one that doesn’t want my blood it seems. I worked on the S-10 whenever I could. It was a secret. Like a lot of things, I didn’t want my abuela to find out.

She had dreams of me attending Drexel University. I had other ideas.

“My sister the ace mechanic, dios mio,” Naomi said, making sloppy kissy sounds into the receiver. We said goodbye, “I’ll see you in Vegas soon?”

She’d already sent me two hundred dollars in a birthday card.

“Si,” I said, setting the pink pony phone into it’s cradle.

I was afraid to leave. The desert was so far, so impossible. The projects kept me close. I’d never been anywhere.

I had a map of the United States tacked to my bedroom wall. It was hidden behind a poster of Miles Davis, he was bent all the way back blowing hard into a silver trumpet. I’d tack Miles Davis up, stare at the odd American map. I had a red sharpie. I wanted to mark all of the places that I’d been on the hidden map, all the roads I’d been on. There wasn’t a single mark. The map, too, was a secret kept from my grandma, Maria.

It’s existence would break her heart. I was her caretaker. I was her connection. I was her family. We were a team.

Philadelphia. That was her plan for me … she’d even sent out the application all filled out with my information. Take the train in and out of Philly, attend college there. Keep living in this hell hole? The ghetto? No. I didn’t think I’d survive. I wanted to be there with Nomi.

I also wanted to see America. It couldn’t all be like this.

My abuela had said to me when I came home with my driver’s license, “why would you have needed to go get that? You won’t need a car … it’s a quick train from here to center city …”

She’d never gotten her driver’s license. I’m supposed to be a good little Puerto Rican and just walk wherever I need to go. She’s afraid I’m going to leave her. I am.

There was a knock on my window.

It was Watt, he was wearing a tight leather jacket, a crooked red baseball cap, cause he runs with the bloods. His eyes were clear. He didn’t look spun, that was our deal. I wouldn’t see him if he was fucked up. I opened the window and let him in my room, but said, “shhhhhhhh,”

“I’ll shoot that bitch, I don’t care.”

“That’s no way to win a girl over, scumbag. Threatening to shoot her

abuela …”

He sits down on my bed. I sit on the chair, looking at him.

“You look good,” he says.

“It’s cause my tits grew,” I said, cupping them. They were heavy. They hurt.

“Oh, I know. I can tell. I shoulda kept a little notebook with all your measurements.” He’s a charming fuck. I secretly love him too.

“I got a little notebook with all your measurements,” I said, “It’s a very tiny notebook. Almost invisible.”

“You’re funny, that makes up for a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know …”

“I need money,” I said.

“That’s a very original thought … you need money …”

“Wanted to talk to you bout something, kinda crazy … dunno if you’d be down.”

“What?”

“If I give you a thousand dollars, what can you turn it into?” Crack. That’s what it comes down to. Watt sells it.

“Turn it into? You’re whacked. Don’t get involved in that. Any of that.”

“I need to leave here.”

“Leave? Really? No shit … you were serious?”

“Deadly serious, boy,” I said, standing up.

We’d grown up together, known each other since we were five. His mom had married my dad. Life is strange like that. He’d gotten me pregnant once. Nomi had taken me for the abortion in Newark, she’d pretended to be my mother, but our mother was dead. Our father was living on the streets somewhere or dead too. People were far scattered. Watt stood up from the bed and put his arms around me, he looked stupid with corn rows.

“You look stupid with corn rows,” I said.

“You’ll look stupid with a black eye.”

“Fuck, you kid,” I mouthed at him. He kissed me deep. There was a knock on the door. She was out there calling for me.

The door was locked, there was a chair against the doorknob.

We sat back down on the bed, indian style facing each other.

“I’m not hungry,” I said to her.

“I hear voices in there, who’s with you?”

“The TV,” I said, switching on the TV. “It’s just some annoying reality show.”

“Food’s on the table,” she said rolling off in her wheelchair.

“Alright,” I said.

Watt fished out his lighter and his bowl. He wanted to smoke.

I shook my head, revealed a cigar box from under my pillow.

“This was Romo’s” my dad, Romario. “He did two good things for me. He taught me how to change the oil in his Buick when I was little, and he stashed this away for my college education when he just got back from the service.”

I opened the box, it was packed with twenty dollar bills, that still smelled like the strawberry cigars I vaugely remember him smoking.

“She gave it to me yesterday on my birthday,” I said, pointing through the door into the cell of the apartment, “take it, it’s yours. Buy what you can with it … take your cut, give me the rest. Think I can double my money?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“And hopefully out of the projects in a month. I need cash to travel, I wanna do it right. Maybe you’ll even come? Motel rooms, drinking, dancing, fun … laughing at things that we see out the window. Weird towns. Strange people … hicks, cowboys …”

“What makes you think I wanna see a cowboy?”

“Ok … cowgirls.”

“That’s more like it.”

Watt took the box, set it down between his thighs, looked down at the money.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

You’ll die here, I wanted to say, but this wasn’t a movie and I was worried that he’d take it the wrong way. I wanted him. I didn’t wanna repel him. I wanted him closer. I wanted him to be mine. It was impossible here. Too many fucked up little whores. Too much blood. Bullets.Crack. Stoops. Weed. Busted out streetlights. Saggy jeans. Rap through busted out speakers. Dog fights. Garbage strewn across front lawns. Buildings collapsing. Structure fires. Youth didn’t happen sweet. It was hard to sleep. Something seemed to be always on the verge of coming for you.

He pushed the cigar box back to me.

“You’ll stay,” he said, “Put the cash in a bank, bitch. And, don’t talk to me about money again, not like that.”

“My bad,” I said.

“No, you’re cool …”

He kissed me, we fell back onto the bed. I grabbed his back, he pulled my hair, turning my face, kissing my neck. There was another knock on the door. He laughed, said, “Fuck you, Maria!” pulled his pants down, as I kicked my shoes off.

As I closed my eyes, all I saw was palm trees. Mountains. Cold rivers. Highways peeling away from the east coast, and all of it’s death.

But, he did take the cigar box with him when he left out the window. I sat at the kitchen table eating cold mofongo: green plantains crushed into pilon, wondering what Graceland was really like.

My abuela didn’t say a word out in the living room.

It snows

so warm …

rolling stones,

hot rocks: side one

this heart of stone

my girl came home

with a green suitcase

travel record player

we set it up in the pink room

next to the desk where I write

and she dug around

came back with pinot noir

her eyes were like little fires

I leaned back in the chair

that I found in the garbage

cracked all my knuckles

except for the broken one

and said, “we’ll still be here

when the sun comes up,

so, take a seat”

“don’t get comfortable,”

she cooed, ”though life is long.”

“It’s a trick.”

“yup, it is.”

the red chair wrapped her up

the radiator sang out

I popped open the wine

with a Nike shoelace

a trick I learned on the internet

she pulled out her paints

one by one by one by one

then revealed a canvas

hidden behind the bookcase

“think I’ll paint over this one”

“don’t do that”

“then buy it from me.”

“I’m broke.”

“I’ll take a million bucks”

she filled my coffee cup with wine

or blood or crushed cherries

or something

I worked a rewrite over

hunting typos as she sang

let’s spend the night together

neighbor knocking on the door

my foot stomping on the floor

“ignore the world, baby

thursday nights are for you and me”

“I know that,” she said,

pushing her long hair out of her eyes

right as Ruby Tuesday came on

we noticed

that age old thing

all our teeth purple

paint all over the records

my fingers hurting from bad typing

she opened up the window

and we climbed out

onto the shaky fire escape

and watched the snow falling

onto New York City

Set a Deadline

I’m going to California at the end of the month. There’s a party out there at an art gallery for a literary magazine that I mess around with (Uno Kudo) …

I’ll be in LA Feb. 1st through the 4th … If you’re in town, lets meet up for a few beers, eh?

Whenever I hear that there’s a party near the Pacific Ocean and that the plane tickets are only $300, you can bet, I’ll be on a jet.

The trip coincides with the “wrapping up” of a novel I wrote in November called F-250. By the end of January I need to have a few copies of the third draft of the novel in my possession to take with me to California.

Why?

Because I told some editor buddies in LA that I was bringing them a copy of the book to read.

This was stupid, right? The book wasn’t done. Well, I like to do things like that. Impose deadlines. When, I’m writing a book or a short story, I like to set a finite date/time for it to be due. If I have a deadline, I know what I have to do in order to reach it.

It’s called: “Get the fuck to work”

I love that. Having something DUE … It’s due somewhere, even if that’s not true. This way, I keep on task. I don’t fall into procrastination. I have to have the fucking thing done by a certain date.

That’s the way that art gets done.

You can put it off forever, or you can just get down to the work of it, now and see it through.

There’s time later to revisit it. To revise it, to rewrite it. But for your purposes, you outta think about giving yourself a deadline.

So, if you’re stuck and not sure how to stay on track with what you’re doing … Before you give up … Dig yourself a deeper hole … Give yourself a near impossible deadline.

There’s two things I like most about writing and that’s getting a rejection on something I send out, and finishing something before a deadline.

BTW: I like rejection notices because it directs a clear rewrite.

What’s the worst rejection you ever got? And how did you use it to your advantage?

Do you have a writing deadline currently? What is it? Why?

Where You Were Dead

 

I remember rocks hitting teeth

and punching a kid in the mouth

the way he bled on his white shirt

that said, “Dino the Last Dinosaur”

there were trips to the beach

we dug down so far the ocean showed

me and my bother in the pit we made

looking up at a sky so violently blue

as if drawn sloppy w/ blueberry scented markers

vinyl banners pulled by wobbling bi-planes

advertisements for eternal life soaring over the 1980s

neon smiling faces, dragged across New Jersey

boardwalk, crane game, zinc cream, seagull wars

Atlantic Arcade

you live forever, I’ll do the same

punch buggy yellow, punch buggy green

then we were walking in the tunnels under the asylum

into the flooded cranberry bog

armed with tree branch weapons

in case of werewolves, man

the toxic waste sunsets burnt over the powerlines

and I held your hand while you made up your mind

tripping on tripwire in the deertrails

burnt out shells of long ago parties

nothing is as depressing as a maze of pine

nothing feels as good as the first time

there used to be a field behind my house

where the dogs ran, but the dogs got sick

died slowly on the concrete floor

it was my father’s garage, stained with oil and wine

we buried the dogs down by the creek

the leaves covered everything so quick

now like my kid days, I’m not sure where the dogs are

somewhere in a nest of pine needles

long gone and without marker

vague and over-saturated wild hum technicolor

but there was christmas wrapping paper

so deep it covered the whole living room floor

my mom and dad didn’t have shit as kids

so for us they both worked two shifts,

aerosol spray can factory, fixing garbage trucks,

cutting fabric, day shift night shift

what’s the difference?

just wanted to tell you that I don’t remember anything specific

but I feel everything that happened in the cage of my ribs

like a dumb bird flying occasionally against my heart

bringing back fingerprint-thick Polaroid photos

and smudged cheap wax coloring book pages

the names of the deadend streets where I used to live

and the dreams that woke me up sweating

where you were dead