Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 3
April 14, 2013
Paul Jones
Paul Jones
Paul Jones frequently told me I had to see Michelangelo’s “David.” He’d tell me this while I was cutting his lawn. While I was scraping the paint off his boat. While I had a hard-on for his blonde wife. Paul Jones always had a beer in hand. Occasionally, he threw a non-alcoholic into the mix. He’d mention a beer was non-alcohol when he was drinking one. It wasn’t necessary. Paul Jones drank and I cared only vaguely. He wasn’t as colorful or crazy as Celine’s Courtial, but he was a successful and unorthodox inventor, always letting me into his house and always trying to overpay me. When he bought his beach house it did not have a basement, so he dug one. He and my predecessor used shovels and when they were finished, Paul Jones gave the kid a VW beetle. He used to tell me that story. If the day ever came when I finished his boat, maybe I too would get my first car. I think the sole purpose of that old dory was to give me something to work on and it was in such shape that it would never see the ocean, especially given my work habits. Paul Jones did not have to work, but he was the director of the engineering laboratory for a major company, where he worked closely with my father, also an engineer. That’s how I got the gig working around his house. The two men each thought the other was a genius, so no matter how many tools and mower blades I broke, my job was safe. Paul Jones mentioned two of his inventions to me. These are what secured his fame and wealth. One was the wetsuit. He was in the navy at the time. He didn’t mention getting any money for that. One amusing fact is that Paul Jones’ neighbor’s name was Paul Jones. Not only that, but he had been a navy diver. And not only that, years later I would work for this Paul Jones. Or that Paul Jones. The second invention was an infrared sensor system, which he sold to the military for big bucks. The system detected enemy fire by muzzle flash and directed counter-fire automatically. Paul Jones’ genius was math. His brother was always trying to drag him out to gamble. He could count cards. He always won at Jai Alai when he relented to a night out. But he was not a gambler. He was an inventor. What I remember most is him coming down that yard with a beer in his hand while I mowed his estate. He’d create a break and tell me stories about great works of art.
Paul Jones frequently told me I had to see Michelangelo’s “David.” He’d tell me this while I was cutting his lawn. While I was scraping the paint off his boat. While I had a hard-on for his blonde wife. Paul Jones always had a beer in hand. Occasionally, he threw a non-alcoholic into the mix. He’d mention a beer was non-alcohol when he was drinking one. It wasn’t necessary. Paul Jones drank and I cared only vaguely. He wasn’t as colorful or crazy as Celine’s Courtial, but he was a successful and unorthodox inventor, always letting me into his house and always trying to overpay me. When he bought his beach house it did not have a basement, so he dug one. He and my predecessor used shovels and when they were finished, Paul Jones gave the kid a VW beetle. He used to tell me that story. If the day ever came when I finished his boat, maybe I too would get my first car. I think the sole purpose of that old dory was to give me something to work on and it was in such shape that it would never see the ocean, especially given my work habits. Paul Jones did not have to work, but he was the director of the engineering laboratory for a major company, where he worked closely with my father, also an engineer. That’s how I got the gig working around his house. The two men each thought the other was a genius, so no matter how many tools and mower blades I broke, my job was safe. Paul Jones mentioned two of his inventions to me. These are what secured his fame and wealth. One was the wetsuit. He was in the navy at the time. He didn’t mention getting any money for that. One amusing fact is that Paul Jones’ neighbor’s name was Paul Jones. Not only that, but he had been a navy diver. And not only that, years later I would work for this Paul Jones. Or that Paul Jones. The second invention was an infrared sensor system, which he sold to the military for big bucks. The system detected enemy fire by muzzle flash and directed counter-fire automatically. Paul Jones’ genius was math. His brother was always trying to drag him out to gamble. He could count cards. He always won at Jai Alai when he relented to a night out. But he was not a gambler. He was an inventor. What I remember most is him coming down that yard with a beer in his hand while I mowed his estate. He’d create a break and tell me stories about great works of art.
April 11, 2013
with miles davis, 1984
newport 1984
“i’m the
motherfucker,
motherfucker.”
“i recognized
you
despite
the hairplugs.”
he
flamed the
foil
and inhaled
i brought my horn
to my lips
and sacred youth
charged across the
holy bay
in his malibu
garage
smoking coke
and beating on his
wife
until his phone rang
“three-hundred grand
to play 30 minutes?”
“that’s ten g’s a minute.”
“i’ll play twenty.”
“okay.”
we scorched
that stage
the bay parted
people rushed
into
our fire
backstage
while his
band banged
whores in a trailer
he said to me
“i don’t want you here.”
i said, “i’m here.”
he said, “i’m miles davis,
motherfucker.”
“you’re the greatest
motherfucking
trumpet player
to ever live, motherfucker.”
“that’s right. i’m the motherfucker,
motherfucker.”
“that’s right, and
i leave you
a warm audience.”
and this is how
miles kicked
me out
of backstage
newport jazz festival 1984
helpless
limping
strutting
in a space suit
through a cracked
cover
of cyndi lauper
a name
and parody
“i’m the
motherfucker,
motherfucker.”
“i recognized
you
despite
the hairplugs.”
he
flamed the
foil
and inhaled
i brought my horn
to my lips
and sacred youth
charged across the
holy bay
in his malibu
garage
smoking coke
and beating on his
wife
until his phone rang
“three-hundred grand
to play 30 minutes?”
“that’s ten g’s a minute.”
“i’ll play twenty.”
“okay.”
we scorched
that stage
the bay parted
people rushed
into
our fire
backstage
while his
band banged
whores in a trailer
he said to me
“i don’t want you here.”
i said, “i’m here.”
he said, “i’m miles davis,
motherfucker.”
“you’re the greatest
motherfucking
trumpet player
to ever live, motherfucker.”
“that’s right. i’m the motherfucker,
motherfucker.”
“that’s right, and
i leave you
a warm audience.”
and this is how
miles kicked
me out
of backstage
newport jazz festival 1984
helpless
limping
strutting
in a space suit
through a cracked
cover
of cyndi lauper
a name
and parody
April 10, 2013
6th & Mission
6th & mission
“we have mice,” david says.
“how do you know?” i say.
“they nibble my feet while i’m asleep.”
“maybe it’s the jameson’s.”
“i’m getting mouse traps.”
“i bought mousetraps,” david says.
“those are some big mouse traps,” i say. “i think they call them rat traps.”
“what’s the difference?”
“i don’t know, a toe?”
“we caught a mouse,” david says.
“holy shit!” i say, “that’s a rat!”
“no, it’s not. it’s a mouse.”
“biggest mouse i’ve ever seen.”
“it’s a mouse.”
“it’s a rat.”
“it’s a mouse.”
“okay. maybe it’s just a rat hybrid.”
“you mean a mouse hybrid.”
“whatever.”
“we killed another mouse,” david says. “his eyes flew out of his skull.”
“did you find them?” i say.
“they’re stuck to the ceiling.”
“that’s not a mouse.”
“i meant a mouse hybrid.”
“that’s a fucking rat.”
“it’s not a rat.”
“we caught another mouse hybrid,” david says.
“oh my god!” i say.
“it’s not a rat.”
“we’re gonna catch the plague.”
“mice don’t carry the plague.”
“what are they eating?” david says.
“whatever they’re eating, we’re not eating.”
“you better go look in the corner,” david says, “it’s another mouse.”
“how the hell many are there?” i say.
“one less. go look.”
“i’m too hung-over for this holocaust. oh, man dude, there’s blood all over the floor.”
“i never knew mousetraps were so powerful.”
“there’s blood and shit all over the place! is that better than having rats? i mean mouse hybrids?”
“this is our thirty-sixth mouse.”
“how big is this room?” i say.
“about a hundred-and-fifty square feet,” david says.
“how many rats have we caught?”
“i stopped counting after seventy mice.”
“why?”
“i don’t know.”
“we have one rat every two square feet.”
“mice.”
“they’re fucking rats you blind asshole.”
“they’re mouse hybrids.”
“have you ever seen a rat?”
“no.”
“i didn’t think so.”
“we have mice,” david says.
“how do you know?” i say.
“they nibble my feet while i’m asleep.”
“maybe it’s the jameson’s.”
“i’m getting mouse traps.”
“i bought mousetraps,” david says.
“those are some big mouse traps,” i say. “i think they call them rat traps.”
“what’s the difference?”
“i don’t know, a toe?”
“we caught a mouse,” david says.
“holy shit!” i say, “that’s a rat!”
“no, it’s not. it’s a mouse.”
“biggest mouse i’ve ever seen.”
“it’s a mouse.”
“it’s a rat.”
“it’s a mouse.”
“okay. maybe it’s just a rat hybrid.”
“you mean a mouse hybrid.”
“whatever.”
“we killed another mouse,” david says. “his eyes flew out of his skull.”
“did you find them?” i say.
“they’re stuck to the ceiling.”
“that’s not a mouse.”
“i meant a mouse hybrid.”
“that’s a fucking rat.”
“it’s not a rat.”
“we caught another mouse hybrid,” david says.
“oh my god!” i say.
“it’s not a rat.”
“we’re gonna catch the plague.”
“mice don’t carry the plague.”
“what are they eating?” david says.
“whatever they’re eating, we’re not eating.”
“you better go look in the corner,” david says, “it’s another mouse.”
“how the hell many are there?” i say.
“one less. go look.”
“i’m too hung-over for this holocaust. oh, man dude, there’s blood all over the floor.”
“i never knew mousetraps were so powerful.”
“there’s blood and shit all over the place! is that better than having rats? i mean mouse hybrids?”
“this is our thirty-sixth mouse.”
“how big is this room?” i say.
“about a hundred-and-fifty square feet,” david says.
“how many rats have we caught?”
“i stopped counting after seventy mice.”
“why?”
“i don’t know.”
“we have one rat every two square feet.”
“mice.”
“they’re fucking rats you blind asshole.”
“they’re mouse hybrids.”
“have you ever seen a rat?”
“no.”
“i didn’t think so.”
April 8, 2013
sister of mercy
sister of mercy
my sister is stupid
and who like all blind cunts
thinks she knows
everything
she philosophizes to me
like i’ve never heard it
she was always
the little bitch
when we were kids
her scream
attracted my father
who then beat the shit out of me
she always acted sorry
after he punched my head
and kicked me
and then she did it again
in high school
a kid came up to me
and asked
“what’s your sister’s
problem? she’s such a bitch.”
i had no answer
i guess i was used to it
though once she grew up
and had a failed marriage
her tone lowered
until she remarried
her rebound
in vegas
a couple months later
but recently, she bet against blood
happened to be her own blood
on her death-bed
the poor and sick will be there
and will hand her off
to her fate
“i have not come to call on the righteous,” jesus said.
her brother was sick
and her brother was hungry
and she let love end there
$2,000 a week was enough to
give him $1 a day,
until she changed her mind
she said it wasn’t his booze
before admitting it was the booze
her husband was
prohibitionist
except when
it was his own drinking
a 300-pound man
cut coupons on his day off
for three hours
instead of playing with his son
food is their family disease
he sinks into the couch
before the tube
with a half gallon of ice cream
issuing orders
and she stands down to that?
oh, to be in love!
her children are ghosts coming to lunch
to feed on unbroken loaves
close to mother’s heart
the children, our future!
the son won’t eat
he’s small and skeletal
and refuses to sit at the table
the daughter is obese
my niece complained and questioned
when her mother
gave her me hot dogs
to take home
in the days when she did
“but why?” she’d question
while observing every morsel
that was leaving her kitchen
her domain
and her question
was unanswered
she calls me brother
it’s a word she can’t fathom
who is starved, sick, poor?
they share this
hunger
they are pains she chose for both
my belly and her soul
days after she cut me off
from that $1 a day in food,
her roof fell in
and her son was diagnosed with ausberger’s and turret’s
and her back went out
and she was hit
in traffic
he thinks he got too angry
my sister is stupid
and who like all blind cunts
thinks she knows
everything
she philosophizes to me
like i’ve never heard it
she was always
the little bitch
when we were kids
her scream
attracted my father
who then beat the shit out of me
she always acted sorry
after he punched my head
and kicked me
and then she did it again
in high school
a kid came up to me
and asked
“what’s your sister’s
problem? she’s such a bitch.”
i had no answer
i guess i was used to it
though once she grew up
and had a failed marriage
her tone lowered
until she remarried
her rebound
in vegas
a couple months later
but recently, she bet against blood
happened to be her own blood
on her death-bed
the poor and sick will be there
and will hand her off
to her fate
“i have not come to call on the righteous,” jesus said.
her brother was sick
and her brother was hungry
and she let love end there
$2,000 a week was enough to
give him $1 a day,
until she changed her mind
she said it wasn’t his booze
before admitting it was the booze
her husband was
prohibitionist
except when
it was his own drinking
a 300-pound man
cut coupons on his day off
for three hours
instead of playing with his son
food is their family disease
he sinks into the couch
before the tube
with a half gallon of ice cream
issuing orders
and she stands down to that?
oh, to be in love!
her children are ghosts coming to lunch
to feed on unbroken loaves
close to mother’s heart
the children, our future!
the son won’t eat
he’s small and skeletal
and refuses to sit at the table
the daughter is obese
my niece complained and questioned
when her mother
gave her me hot dogs
to take home
in the days when she did
“but why?” she’d question
while observing every morsel
that was leaving her kitchen
her domain
and her question
was unanswered
she calls me brother
it’s a word she can’t fathom
who is starved, sick, poor?
they share this
hunger
they are pains she chose for both
my belly and her soul
days after she cut me off
from that $1 a day in food,
her roof fell in
and her son was diagnosed with ausberger’s and turret’s
and her back went out
and she was hit
in traffic
he thinks he got too angry
April 6, 2013
somewhat identified
somewhat identified
i was sitting in the back yard at night, having a beer. it was cold and clear. i looked into the sky. maybe i looked into the sky because i sensed it was there. maybe i just wanted to look at the stars. i saw the light right away, approaching from the south. it was brighter than anything i have ever seen in the sky and it’s altitude and speed did not match any plane i had ever seen. i estimated it was flying at 10,000 feet at about 600 miles an hour, headed north in a straight line. it arrived over the horizon and reached overhead in about one minute. it made no sound. the combined altitude and speed and the brightness of the object was like nothing i had ever seen. if the object was the size of the light it gave off, it was huge. then it did something: it zigzagged, like the lines you see on a heart monitor. abruptly right, then back to its original path, then abruptly left, so on. it zigzagged four times and then continued straight. to my knowledge, man has not invented a craft which can do what i saw. i don’t think a man inside such a moving craft could survive the forces of those maneuvers. it had a very calming effect on me. i was not excited or stunned. i was calm, as if a question had been answered and the answer was acceptable. i watched it move north. about four miles away, it turned west and flew off at at least 18,000 miles an hour. by “turned” i do not mean it followed an arc. it was going north and then it was going west instantaneously. it changed course by 90-degrees and blasted off. it was gone in less than a second. i base the 18,000 mile-an-hour speed on having seen the space shuttle flying at 6,000 miles-an-hour after entering the atmosphere. i don’t think it was one of ours and i suspect they knew they could be seen. before this encounter, i was pretty dubious about alien life and even wrote a story against their existence. now i believe. not with any fervency, but with a quiet knowledge that an advanced being revealed itself to me and there’s nothing i can do about it. i know a pilot who said he saw one stop in front of his plane. he said it was huge, about three football fields wide with lights. the next day the newspaper was filled with reports of sightings. i probably won’t read tomorrow’s paper. i have no need. i had seen something of quantum physics. maybe only i saw it, like they allowed themselves to be seen just to cheer me up. it definitely made me feel calmer, relieved, relaxed, blessed.
i was sitting in the back yard at night, having a beer. it was cold and clear. i looked into the sky. maybe i looked into the sky because i sensed it was there. maybe i just wanted to look at the stars. i saw the light right away, approaching from the south. it was brighter than anything i have ever seen in the sky and it’s altitude and speed did not match any plane i had ever seen. i estimated it was flying at 10,000 feet at about 600 miles an hour, headed north in a straight line. it arrived over the horizon and reached overhead in about one minute. it made no sound. the combined altitude and speed and the brightness of the object was like nothing i had ever seen. if the object was the size of the light it gave off, it was huge. then it did something: it zigzagged, like the lines you see on a heart monitor. abruptly right, then back to its original path, then abruptly left, so on. it zigzagged four times and then continued straight. to my knowledge, man has not invented a craft which can do what i saw. i don’t think a man inside such a moving craft could survive the forces of those maneuvers. it had a very calming effect on me. i was not excited or stunned. i was calm, as if a question had been answered and the answer was acceptable. i watched it move north. about four miles away, it turned west and flew off at at least 18,000 miles an hour. by “turned” i do not mean it followed an arc. it was going north and then it was going west instantaneously. it changed course by 90-degrees and blasted off. it was gone in less than a second. i base the 18,000 mile-an-hour speed on having seen the space shuttle flying at 6,000 miles-an-hour after entering the atmosphere. i don’t think it was one of ours and i suspect they knew they could be seen. before this encounter, i was pretty dubious about alien life and even wrote a story against their existence. now i believe. not with any fervency, but with a quiet knowledge that an advanced being revealed itself to me and there’s nothing i can do about it. i know a pilot who said he saw one stop in front of his plane. he said it was huge, about three football fields wide with lights. the next day the newspaper was filled with reports of sightings. i probably won’t read tomorrow’s paper. i have no need. i had seen something of quantum physics. maybe only i saw it, like they allowed themselves to be seen just to cheer me up. it definitely made me feel calmer, relieved, relaxed, blessed.
April 4, 2013
drive-by julia
drive-by julia
praised god when i moved away and found a girlfriend. pretending you are asleep until she leaves is fair. slipping out while she sleeps is how I insulted her one morning. i got home and she had called worried about my safety. julia is now my pot-shot queen who stays in touch just enough to assault my existence. She stops by unannounced on her bike to exploit my guilt. drive-by Julia wants to write but she can’t think or see or write so she reads more books than anyone i’ve known without drinking the water. she came by one day and i gave her a painting. she gave it back, said it wasn’t framed. i later stapled it to plywood and hung it on my wall. she saw it next time and gawked like i’d done her wrong as she gloated over my recent break-up with a girl she had said was too young. i have a bad temper like my old man who exploded when i returned a screwdriver to the wrong slot. when the kid unplugs the stereo to turn on his playstation and leaves lights on and doors open and shit in the toilet I tell him. when Julia interrogates and insults my women and diminishes infrequent joys without her i just think what a cunt i escaped from that morning and don’t dwell on it.
praised god when i moved away and found a girlfriend. pretending you are asleep until she leaves is fair. slipping out while she sleeps is how I insulted her one morning. i got home and she had called worried about my safety. julia is now my pot-shot queen who stays in touch just enough to assault my existence. She stops by unannounced on her bike to exploit my guilt. drive-by Julia wants to write but she can’t think or see or write so she reads more books than anyone i’ve known without drinking the water. she came by one day and i gave her a painting. she gave it back, said it wasn’t framed. i later stapled it to plywood and hung it on my wall. she saw it next time and gawked like i’d done her wrong as she gloated over my recent break-up with a girl she had said was too young. i have a bad temper like my old man who exploded when i returned a screwdriver to the wrong slot. when the kid unplugs the stereo to turn on his playstation and leaves lights on and doors open and shit in the toilet I tell him. when Julia interrogates and insults my women and diminishes infrequent joys without her i just think what a cunt i escaped from that morning and don’t dwell on it.
March 29, 2013
well anyway, we had something good
well anyway, we had something good
i know why you don’t write
i wish i knew then what i oughta
know
now
it was sex on the fly
for you
a rebound for me
perfect
we were both
invulnerable
then something
what was it?
oh, happened
love
you stunned
yourself
and stepped out
like a girl
into the summer of love
then split
i went on rebounding
i called you
and you said
“errrrr . . . “
you didn’t want
to see me
though when you
left
you had said
otherwise
i went on rebounding
and you came back
to say
i love you
but it was
too late
to be loved by you
i couldn’t shake
the girl
who was not there
it was sex on the fly
for you
and a cure for me
i’m glad i didn’t know
then
what i oughta know
now
i know why you don’t write
i wish i knew then what i oughta
know
now
it was sex on the fly
for you
a rebound for me
perfect
we were both
invulnerable
then something
what was it?
oh, happened
love
you stunned
yourself
and stepped out
like a girl
into the summer of love
then split
i went on rebounding
i called you
and you said
“errrrr . . . “
you didn’t want
to see me
though when you
left
you had said
otherwise
i went on rebounding
and you came back
to say
i love you
but it was
too late
to be loved by you
i couldn’t shake
the girl
who was not there
it was sex on the fly
for you
and a cure for me
i’m glad i didn’t know
then
what i oughta know
now
March 28, 2013
The Prosperous Family
The Prosperous Family
Cinderblocks. They were piled in front of mark and matthew’s summer house. Their folks were going to use them to build a garage. The cinderblocks had been thrown haphazardly into a large pile and I saw that they had concrete chunks stuck to them. They were used cinderblocks, the remains of a demolition. For years mark and matthew’s folks spent their summers hammering and chiseling away at the cinderblocks. By the time they were clean and the garage was built, she was dead and he was 80-years-old. That family had millions to spend on cinderblocks. I suppose some satisfaction was attained by those chisels but they looked stupid. They drove an American Motors shitbox and had a small dumpy house in the city, from which they ventured each summer to my island turf, which they did their best to claim. They tried to chase off my friends. The old man was a Polish Jew turned Jehova’s Witness and an innovator, earned his bread by a specific genius. The boys took different paths after he died and left them the money he had passive-aggressively saved. The Apollo space capsule and the membrane used in dialysis machines went up in crack smoke. Mark became a coke dealer and after the law caught him, real estate. He set up shop in a poor town and made millions during the sub-prime mortgage frenzy. He skipped college. He was smart. A high school chess champion, I beat him in our only match. He was dumbfounded that a kid two years younger could beat him. He wanted a rematch. I declined like an asshole because I knew I’d throw the game: I only need to do things once. He was a confident egotist, the first-born son who inherited most of it, asked for and received much of his inheritance in advance. He was treated like a god in that family. He met his girlfriend at the law firm that handled his cocaine charges. His first car was a new Corvette, after that Porsche 911’s. He is a multi-millionaire crack-head turned Christian who spouts verses as he builds a house on the beach where we once swam, snorkeled, and caught skipjack, which his mother used to fry for us. His septic system will pollute that beach. My mother wouldn’t let fish in the house or my friends. Mark and Matthew’s mother was a vague and plain peasant from the countryside in Italy. She was young and left her tampons in the open and she pushed the mower across those two acres herself. Matthew, the younger son, was a morose loaner. Faces of Death. Motorcycles he drove 162 miles-an-hour. Ferrets. Chickens and rats. Pitbulls. He became a tattoo artist. He said he inherited a mortgage and some antiques with concrete stuck to them. He signed for another mortgage on a 40-foot $300,000 RV and hit the road, calling himself a gypsy. He is a sun-chaser, loaded down with possessions, but says he has an honest job managing Renaissance faires mostly in the south. With him comes his disabled daughter, whom he home-schools. Behind the RV he tows a trailer: Honda 4 x 4, Kawasaki 650 (faster da-da, faster!), an all-terrain vehicle, a Harley Davidson, and the best whiskey money can buy. He parks his rig on the beach and breaks out a $100 bottle of rum. He owns three handguns and has a concealed weapons permit, keeps a Glock .40 tucked into the back of his pants. His favorite writer is Ed Abbey, who devoted his life to fighting commercial tourism and destruction of the desert. Mark chases women in his Porsche while Matt contemplates his soulfulness. I must agree that he has turned out better than Mark. Many people are lost and he calls them “sheeple.” I agree with him on the herd. He is satisfied with his bus and life and two houses in Rhode Island and the cabin in Colorado. He agrees with himself that he should buy that land on the island in Florida. The jet skiing there is great. Manatees. Dolphins. Turtles. His father’s self-content made you want to flee. After enduring an hour of his role in Kennedy’s space-fuck and theories, when you’d stand up to bolt, he’d ask you how you were. He was a bright man, played upright bass in a jazz band in the 30s and 40s before turning to textiles. He worked for NASA and designed a Mercury space suit that was not used; Matthew still has it. He ran a small mill which produced wool sweaters for the wealthy. LL Bean approached him, but he declined. He said they wanted too many sweaters. I suspect he didn’t want his brand and profits lowered. He had invented the seamless sleeve by knitting in circles and didn’t need a catalogue store. NASA did use his design for the astronauts’ seats in the Apollo capsule, a fabric that would stretch and cushion the impact of touchdown into the ocean. I was shaping surfboards back then and saw how a seamless fiberglass tube would make for stronger rails, edges. I stayed on him about it for two years. He eventually presented me with a fiberglass tube the size of a sock. While he despaired that his sons would not take over the family business, he was not going to help me. Meanwhile, Mark stands before a mirror 45 minutes each morning, plucking nostril hairs.
Cinderblocks. They were piled in front of mark and matthew’s summer house. Their folks were going to use them to build a garage. The cinderblocks had been thrown haphazardly into a large pile and I saw that they had concrete chunks stuck to them. They were used cinderblocks, the remains of a demolition. For years mark and matthew’s folks spent their summers hammering and chiseling away at the cinderblocks. By the time they were clean and the garage was built, she was dead and he was 80-years-old. That family had millions to spend on cinderblocks. I suppose some satisfaction was attained by those chisels but they looked stupid. They drove an American Motors shitbox and had a small dumpy house in the city, from which they ventured each summer to my island turf, which they did their best to claim. They tried to chase off my friends. The old man was a Polish Jew turned Jehova’s Witness and an innovator, earned his bread by a specific genius. The boys took different paths after he died and left them the money he had passive-aggressively saved. The Apollo space capsule and the membrane used in dialysis machines went up in crack smoke. Mark became a coke dealer and after the law caught him, real estate. He set up shop in a poor town and made millions during the sub-prime mortgage frenzy. He skipped college. He was smart. A high school chess champion, I beat him in our only match. He was dumbfounded that a kid two years younger could beat him. He wanted a rematch. I declined like an asshole because I knew I’d throw the game: I only need to do things once. He was a confident egotist, the first-born son who inherited most of it, asked for and received much of his inheritance in advance. He was treated like a god in that family. He met his girlfriend at the law firm that handled his cocaine charges. His first car was a new Corvette, after that Porsche 911’s. He is a multi-millionaire crack-head turned Christian who spouts verses as he builds a house on the beach where we once swam, snorkeled, and caught skipjack, which his mother used to fry for us. His septic system will pollute that beach. My mother wouldn’t let fish in the house or my friends. Mark and Matthew’s mother was a vague and plain peasant from the countryside in Italy. She was young and left her tampons in the open and she pushed the mower across those two acres herself. Matthew, the younger son, was a morose loaner. Faces of Death. Motorcycles he drove 162 miles-an-hour. Ferrets. Chickens and rats. Pitbulls. He became a tattoo artist. He said he inherited a mortgage and some antiques with concrete stuck to them. He signed for another mortgage on a 40-foot $300,000 RV and hit the road, calling himself a gypsy. He is a sun-chaser, loaded down with possessions, but says he has an honest job managing Renaissance faires mostly in the south. With him comes his disabled daughter, whom he home-schools. Behind the RV he tows a trailer: Honda 4 x 4, Kawasaki 650 (faster da-da, faster!), an all-terrain vehicle, a Harley Davidson, and the best whiskey money can buy. He parks his rig on the beach and breaks out a $100 bottle of rum. He owns three handguns and has a concealed weapons permit, keeps a Glock .40 tucked into the back of his pants. His favorite writer is Ed Abbey, who devoted his life to fighting commercial tourism and destruction of the desert. Mark chases women in his Porsche while Matt contemplates his soulfulness. I must agree that he has turned out better than Mark. Many people are lost and he calls them “sheeple.” I agree with him on the herd. He is satisfied with his bus and life and two houses in Rhode Island and the cabin in Colorado. He agrees with himself that he should buy that land on the island in Florida. The jet skiing there is great. Manatees. Dolphins. Turtles. His father’s self-content made you want to flee. After enduring an hour of his role in Kennedy’s space-fuck and theories, when you’d stand up to bolt, he’d ask you how you were. He was a bright man, played upright bass in a jazz band in the 30s and 40s before turning to textiles. He worked for NASA and designed a Mercury space suit that was not used; Matthew still has it. He ran a small mill which produced wool sweaters for the wealthy. LL Bean approached him, but he declined. He said they wanted too many sweaters. I suspect he didn’t want his brand and profits lowered. He had invented the seamless sleeve by knitting in circles and didn’t need a catalogue store. NASA did use his design for the astronauts’ seats in the Apollo capsule, a fabric that would stretch and cushion the impact of touchdown into the ocean. I was shaping surfboards back then and saw how a seamless fiberglass tube would make for stronger rails, edges. I stayed on him about it for two years. He eventually presented me with a fiberglass tube the size of a sock. While he despaired that his sons would not take over the family business, he was not going to help me. Meanwhile, Mark stands before a mirror 45 minutes each morning, plucking nostril hairs.
March 25, 2013
the tyrrany of a face
the tyranny of a face
hers was an ass
sticky from
laxatives
yet lenny kravitz
and anthody
kiedis
and i
wanted it
she started
with inserts
and local tv
she sold
seafood
and
underwear and
herself
the blonde
dream
men conspired
with
on the toilet
her ambitious
mother
pushed
the idea
of the bodily
saw the house
the bmw
and a boyfriend
for herself
her sweetheart
shoved her
against
her locker
and sent
his tongue
deep
he couldn’t
say hello
in any other
language
when
daddy
said
let’s play
he meant
go down
into
the basement
and wait
until i’m
done
i couldn’t
overlook
the carrots
and my eyeballs
rolled
off the runway
as i listened
to her
tell me
how ugly she was
the women, the magazines
model citizens
underfoot
her friends
seducing me
behind her ass
we shared
a place
when she
was not
standing around waiting
she leaned on
the spoon
and put
on
her boots
with a smile
that was
aggression
she watched
me
from the couch:
“you’re too generous
with your time
and money. i think
you’re getting
sick.”
i said:
“i’m the opposite
of you. everything
looks bad on me.”
before my eyes
her beauty
faded out
on an ugly mind
and mouth
sports illustrated
never called
and a couple years
later
she overdosed
in the company
of
rehab buddies
wrung out
by vanity
and the failure
to perpetuate a flash
i don’t think
of her
when i jerk off
just see her
whenever
i smell vomit
hers was an ass
sticky from
laxatives
yet lenny kravitz
and anthody
kiedis
and i
wanted it
she started
with inserts
and local tv
she sold
seafood
and
underwear and
herself
the blonde
dream
men conspired
with
on the toilet
her ambitious
mother
pushed
the idea
of the bodily
saw the house
the bmw
and a boyfriend
for herself
her sweetheart
shoved her
against
her locker
and sent
his tongue
deep
he couldn’t
say hello
in any other
language
when
daddy
said
let’s play
he meant
go down
into
the basement
and wait
until i’m
done
i couldn’t
overlook
the carrots
and my eyeballs
rolled
off the runway
as i listened
to her
tell me
how ugly she was
the women, the magazines
model citizens
underfoot
her friends
seducing me
behind her ass
we shared
a place
when she
was not
standing around waiting
she leaned on
the spoon
and put
on
her boots
with a smile
that was
aggression
she watched
me
from the couch:
“you’re too generous
with your time
and money. i think
you’re getting
sick.”
i said:
“i’m the opposite
of you. everything
looks bad on me.”
before my eyes
her beauty
faded out
on an ugly mind
and mouth
sports illustrated
never called
and a couple years
later
she overdosed
in the company
of
rehab buddies
wrung out
by vanity
and the failure
to perpetuate a flash
i don’t think
of her
when i jerk off
just see her
whenever
i smell vomit
March 23, 2013
rabble
rabble
the edges of our dreams if we had them are worn smooth as the cobblestones at our stinking feet, flat as our asses on the only bench they gave us . . . here comes a green jaguar, british racing green, to adjust my perceived material security: got $4 in my wallet, half a pack of camels, and eight rolling rocks in the tiny fridge . . . tomorrow’s hustle is distant and i am lifted strong by the morphine pulsing through my head. i live in a cell upstairs so they think they can give me their diseases. they strangle one another and the cops interrogate me; they think i am one of them. i have fallen and they have never imagined a phoenix boy. to them, i am never getting out of here because nobody does. i am one of them. they see me at the soup kitchen with my mouth shut. they believe my stupidity brought me to the world they own. i am less than one of them. they beat one another with hammers and overdose and rot like any old liars . . . the jaguar eases down farewell street . . . a suicide asks me for a cigarette. i say yes.
the edges of our dreams if we had them are worn smooth as the cobblestones at our stinking feet, flat as our asses on the only bench they gave us . . . here comes a green jaguar, british racing green, to adjust my perceived material security: got $4 in my wallet, half a pack of camels, and eight rolling rocks in the tiny fridge . . . tomorrow’s hustle is distant and i am lifted strong by the morphine pulsing through my head. i live in a cell upstairs so they think they can give me their diseases. they strangle one another and the cops interrogate me; they think i am one of them. i have fallen and they have never imagined a phoenix boy. to them, i am never getting out of here because nobody does. i am one of them. they see me at the soup kitchen with my mouth shut. they believe my stupidity brought me to the world they own. i am less than one of them. they beat one another with hammers and overdose and rot like any old liars . . . the jaguar eases down farewell street . . . a suicide asks me for a cigarette. i say yes.
