A Passing Crash of Little Consequence

It was just about eleven in the darkness of the car that the visions started. We had taken the wrong road and were cruising down the highway looking for a decent burger when the vision went white. “Jesus, save us,” I cried and slammed on the breaks angling for the guard rail.

We barreled off the side of the mountain through trees with fucking squirrels screaming as we blew through their family homes then came crashing down into a large shrub filled ditch with a little brook running through.

I stumbled out of the wreck and popped in the glass lens of my sunglasses which had popped out.

My passenger had taken a carrot he was munching through the neck and I presumed the worst for him as there was a lot of blood and he didn’t answer my inquiries.

By now the visions were sending my body into fits. I felt my pulse rate drop despite the adrenaline from the crash. I distinctly felt His presence behind me, approaching to comfort me. I knew if I turned around I would hit heaven.

I turned around blazed right through heaven and straight to hell. When I awoke the sun was out, my passenger was still dead, and I had bit my tongue badly so there was blood in my mouth and nose. I spat.

Fingering for a scrap of paper I tried to write down what I saw before the memory faded. He had touched me then, and words fell from my fingertips onto the pad.

Surrounded by trees, but in good health, I burdened myself with the walk back to the road.


The Man of the Sea in the Morning

The man rigs the ship for movement. At night, below deck he sharpens his tools. When the weather is good, he drinks wine. At every coastal port he plants sons. Every opportunity which is his to take, he takes. He penetrates with great purpose when the situation is his. The man exists to be observed. He is a force of nature let loose by God as a clockwork toy. From place to place he travels, a predator of a design not widely made. His existence is to be studied.

At night and especially in the morning when he writes he opens his mind to the possibility that he is the sole author of his past, that he has never existed and before the current moment all was blank. He decides his past and so informs God.

The man has no doubts that he can handle the world. He prays that the world might be prepared for him. He is a man who understands he is under observation and so behaves every action as if his actions are a part in a grand conversation between himself and God.

All the world is God’s expression made directly to him. His will is to remain equal with God in his game.

The man believes every thought, every movement of atom or electron is important enough to be observed. Every thought is a challenge against the grandness of everything.

“God knows my mind,” he says. “I have ordered it for him. If God be displeased, let God reorder my mind. I am open to his sort of talk.”

On the first day the rain passes in sheets. The water moves in air like waves with the sea. In the spaces between sheets of thick falling blocks of water you take great gulps of air.

The rain dies down by dawn. The sky became clear and the sunlight dries the deck. A gull is spotted overhead. The gull drops a crab onto the deck. Kill it and eat it.

The best writers sail above the sea in a ship built of brand, toss down lures heavy with meaning, and sink hooks into the fattest bodies.

The man sailed port wards. He knew it by memory. The man eased the boat into the bay and up the canal and came up alongside the cleats nailed the wood dock strip and leapt off the boat and landed on his bare feet and tied his boat down with a piece of line.

What was out, his rods, his lines, his radio, the man stowed below the deck then made his way up to the dock house and sat down at the bar and ordered liquor.

The man was fit and impressive. Auburn hair spilled over his brow, oiled by sweat and salt crust. Beneath his brow the man was green eyed. His body was tan and ascetic. He was a fascist and believed all things could and should be sculpted by will.

On the beach in the sand his head resting in your land is a man paused with his head laid back and thinking of nothing and everything at once.

“This is an observation of the self,” he says to the sky. “You know me yet only as well as I know myself. Stay silent and watch if you will.”

The man lays still and listens.

It is possible for thoughts to come together all at once in an unusual way. These thoughts are so striking and new and they often come as a result of the surrounding stimuli. Something was off about the place the man was in. He knew at once that these were not human beings that were like him. They were resources provided to him by God for exploitation. All around him something was closing in, an elemental force, a test, an opportunity. The world pressed.

The man knew it as a demand. The challenge was laid bare and must be struck back at with equal fervor if he was to remain equal in the eyes of God.

There beside the piano leaned a woman who the man knew was an opportunity. Her legs stood slightly apart and she listened at a small man who played uplifting songs at the piano at a slow tempo.

The woman pretended to be occupied with the music, but coyly gazed around the room. She was an invitation. This man was an opportunist.

Disaster in all it’s forms, the loss of life, loss of path, loss of meaning, usually can be described as a descent into chaos, and in that regard the man struck disaster. The woman did too, though perhaps she was a programed that way.

“I am me and all is God and here I walk in his shadow and meet the world that is made for me. I am equal to everything besides me.”

When the man reaches equilibrium with God, he is at peace. This is an admirable man, one who accepts a burden worthy of his power.

Many things that start out small and organized grow to be large and organized.

We who make content and value are on a crowded sea. If you would remember me, give a follow.

Carly Botanical I

Carly Botanical slid down a silly slide into her bathroom and spoke amazing words into a telephone she found there. “These delectables are enormous,” she said to her friend on the other side. “Death,” said her friend, hovering nearby, “Is my friend now.” “Stay off!” said Carly who had no time for being anyone’s second fiddle.

The wind howled and a moonlit cow stuck its head through the window of the second story bathroom. “How do you dooooo?” the cow said. Carly howled. “This is not your bathroom, cow.” The cow wept large welling teardrops that splatter against the tiled floor. “Waaaah.” Plop. “Wheeehawah.” Plop. “Enough,” said Carly. “Tell me your story.”

“Six weeks ago I was on a cattle car heading up to the international science academy for an award for my years of research into the bottom of buckets filled with corn syrup, when the train stopped and I was led off by people in uniform.”

“Nazi’s!” said Carly.

“They were angry and black and each wore a silver medallion over one eye. Half over the left eye and half over their right.”

“Pirates of the silver coin!”


“What were they doing heisting a train robbery? That’s outside their cannon.”

“They told me. Listen, Carly.” “Okay, I’ll listen.” “The pirates berated me for being a cow. They said, ‘What a cow.’ Called me ‘burger to be’ and slapped my ass with the butts off their peg-legs.”

“Oh no.” “Oh yes. The pirates were cruel and slapped me all the way from the train to their landing strip. There they loaded me into an airplane and flew me to their boat. On the boat they did terrible things, Carly. I can’t tell you anymore about that. I’m not the same cow I used to be.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” said Carly. She was rubbing a bar of soap along one of her long legs, a cleaning behavior she’d seen in a movie. “We haven’t,” said the cow. “You know my name is Carly, though?” “Everyone knows your name. Slut.” Carly slid into the bathwater and down into the drain and further down till she was in the final circle of hell. There, the devil said to her, “You really should take better care of your reputation.” “I don’t wanna!” “Very well,” said the Devil, “But you will end up here with me.” “Does your cock glow red in the dark?”

Carly was back in her bathroom. The Devil was gone. The cow was gone. Even the bathwater was gone. “What was I doing to myself?” she wondered. The bar of soap was nearly used up and the skin on her leg was caked. Stepping out of the bathroom in the nude, Carly approached the kitchen blender and put some minnows from a tin in the refrigerator in with some peanut butter. The sunlight laughed happily, came in through the front door, put it’s hat on the hat stand, and kissed her cheek. “Haha, sunlight,” she said. The sunlight came in hard and fucked her over the sink. She turned on the blender and blended her fish for three minutes.

“Smells like fish,” the sunlight said. Carly laughed. Outside, several pigs were wandering in a line past the window. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Carly worried out loud, “They’re on their way to my flower bulbs.” The pigs paused at her white picket fence. “No no no!,” she thought. The pigs conferred. Then the big brown one pushed wide her gate and sniffed into her yard. “My bulbs!” She thought. The sunlight was still inside of her, and all Carly could do was blend loudly at the pigs. The big pig approached her windowsill and nuzzled it’s snout into the damp earth below the window.

The flower bulbs screamed as they were nestled out of the ground and silenced forever. Carly wept bitterly. She closed her eyes and imaged large flowers. Purple petals and exploding seed pods of enormous girth filled her imagination while sunlight came inside and splashed across her cheeks. Her tits hung out exposed in the window like a French girl, and the neighbor’s husband, walking their dog slowed as he past.

In the house across the way, someone else watched the situation closely. Moldova was an old woman, nearing 70 and she watched what her son in law was doing, while walking his dog, through her oversized sailors bronze telescope. “Dastardly,” she rumbled. The cat on the couch yawned and looked at the woman, who’s oversized buttocks wobbled back and forth as she bent forward to look into the telescope.

“This is much too much for your delicate eyes to witness,” Moldova scolded to her cat. Usually she shared her sight seeing with the animal. “Not today. Let’s turn to the chalkboard.” The woman swayed over to the other side of the sitting room and turned the cat’s attention to the board for a presentation.

“Here,” she slapped the chalk down and sketched out a diagram. “My son in law, first of all here is represented by this apple because he’s a fruit. This here, this snake is the French girl who he lusts after. This is my daughter, the perfect flower. Here’s you, my little lion.” The cat yawned.

“This is where we hire the Absurd Man. These youth need their foolish lives pumped with chaos. The Absurd Man is an old friend of mine. Used to be more than friends. He and I were lovers all over the place. In Paris. In the red arm chair. In the McDonalds bathroom over the sink. He was a fine mustachioed man. He must be called. He’ll put a start to some nonsense or another. That’ll keep this orderly romantic affair from normalizing. Besides, who knows what else might happen when the Absurd Man comes to town.” The sixty-eight year old mother of two laughed.

Donny and the Bird Man I

The blue bird outside blew blues, whistling what it heard on the radio. The music came from the window of a harp player, Donny, who was a thin man in a tight fitting black leather pants with a tuft of beard cut small and artfully precise. Early in the mornings he practiced his harp, blowing blues to recordings of jazz bands and sweating around his living room by the open window.

It was mid August and the birds were out, and in numbers. Sometimes they screamed in territorial agony at the man’s harp playing. The man of course did not imagine he was the source of the bird’s frustrations. “Birds will be birds,” he muttered, each time a redbird or bluejay slammed into his window screen, cawing and beating it’s wings before shitting on his windowsill and flying off. “Birds will be birds.”

It was on the third Tuesday of the month of August, that full bodied man, dressed in a pigeon suit flew into Donny’s screen door, smashing through the glass of the open window and landing, bloody and screaming on Donny’s living room floor.

“Fucking heck!” The man shouted, “What a bird!”

Taking pity on the bird man, Donny found an old cardboard box that had come with his washing machine and filled it with kitty litter and put the bird man into the box to pant and bleed.

“What a mess,” said Donny. He blew a sad prolonged note on his harmonica. The mop was nowhere to be found. Downstairs, Donny knocked on his neighbor’s door. Eyes peered through the crack appeared in the doorway and gave Donny a nine million mile stare. “What do you want?” “A mop?” Steam rose from the pupils. “You slop.” “It was a bird man.” “The same bird man that it always is? Is he with you?” “No this one is different. It’s got a man’s face.” “I don’t believe you but you need a mop or you wouldn’t be here.” The woman shut the door crack and came back minutes later with a tall full handled mop carved out of the trunk of a young elm tree, with long heavy knotted ropes along the bottom attached by an iron band.

“Thank you,” said Donny. “It is a powerful mop.” “I’ve a powerful mess.” “Yes you do.”

On the way up the stairs, Donny threw himself to the floor. “This is too much,” he muttered. “There’s a man dressed like a bird in my room, fat and leaking blood in a box I filled with kitty litter. It’s too much.” Donny lay prone. Softly he got up and walked the rest of the stairs to his room. He opened the door to find the bird man watching television and bleeding on his couch.

“That’s not where I left you.” “Fuck off. I moved. What are you going to do about it?” “Get back in the box.” “Mop up the mess I left you.” Donny looked at his hardwood floor. Beside the blood, the bird man had taken a large grey pool of shit on his hardwood. “I …” Donny grew concerned about the stains.

The bird man flipped through channels. “This is garbage. Do you believe in humanity and the world of today?” “It’s progress.” “It’s moral decay. The ant people should wipe you out. ” “What?” “The ant people.” “Are they people dressed in ant suits?” “Don’t play fucking with me.” “What?”

The bird man rose off the couch and spread his arms and slapped Donny on both sides of the head. “What the hell?” “You do not speak to me like that. I am not a person in a bird suit.” “You are!” The bird man slapped Donny again. “You are my rightful property. I have invaded your home. I have taken your wealth. I will desecrate your face until you are unrecognizable to your own mother. Do you understand?”

Donny ran to the door. The bird man followed. Donny still held the mop and held it out between the bird man and himself. “Take this!” Donny thrusted. The bird man caught the mop in his meaty flesh colored hand and punched Donny in the gut.

Book of Johnny II

Another day. Another excerpt. Linearity, damned! However, the segments for the next few days will follow each other.


Johnny threw his shoes onto the bed. “Don’t fit,” he said. “They’re the same shoes you wore yesterday.” “They changed.”

Eleanor danced nakedly spinning on the balls of her feet with her arms wide. “They’re evil,” said Johnny. “Let’s burn them,” said Eleanor.

They stood in the driveway of the hotel and poured cooking oil on Johnny’s shoes. Johnny struck a match. Eleanor blew it out. He struck another and stuck his fingers in Eleanor’s mouth. The shoes went up in flame. “Smells like cancer,” said Johnny.

Shoeless, Johnny walked down the block to the convenience store at the end. Eleanor followed and for a moment Johnny was confused before he remembered they were together and so he puffed out his chest and put his arm around her as they passed through the automatic doors.

Then he went to look at snacks. There were many colors but Johnny chose the chips in the red bag. “Like the blood of the innocent,” he whispered. A blind man stood at the register. Johnny handed the blind man a bill. “What is it?” said the blind man, squeezing the bill. “A billion dollar bill,” said Johnny. The blind man counted out Johnny’s change. Eleanor stole a candy bar. “I’ve got nearly a billion dollars now,” said Johnny. Eleanor laughed. They rented a paddle boat.

+ + +

Eleanor found herself hopelessly drunk at a gay bar. “What sorcery is this?” she whispered. But as she was already dancing, Eleanor figured she might as well continue to dance. “I’m a gay man now,” said Johnny. “What?” “I took a penis this big.” Johnny spread his hands apart as far as he could. “Then another one this big.” Johnny halved his reach. “Then I stuck mine in a man this tall” Johnny halved his reach again. “Fucking heck,” said Eleanor, but then he kissed her.

In the morning Johnny couldn’t find his shoes. “We burned them,” Eleanor said. “Did we buy a new pair?” “That doesn’t sound like us.” “I guess not.” “Come back to bed.”

In the afternoon Johnny walked to the convenience store. “No shoes, no service,” said the blind man. “How did you know?” The blind man pointed to his ears. Johnny nodded and stole a candy bar.

+ + +

Johnny threw wide his arms at the sight of the train. The sun felt good on his tanned arms with the arm hairs bleached white. Eleanor tapped his butt with her sun hat and travel bag. He put his arm around her and pulled their hips close while the train slowed.

Eleanor and Johnny took seats facing each other. Eleanor shut the blinds to put some shade between they and the listening sun. Across the isle a pair of morbidly obese pacific islanders sat like an opposing king and queen. They were napping now, but Johnny found them agitating.

“Denver was nice,” Johnny agreed. “I’d never skied before.” “You did good. You were always athletic.” “Was I?” “Always.” “Acrobatic, even?” “More like a squat lifter.” “It’s a shame we’re headed home.” “I got tired.” “I got bored.” “We could sabotage the train in Kansas.” “Not Kansas.” “Illinois?” “Let’s get drinks.”

Johnny looked for a drink cart down the aisles. “Be back,” he said. He stepped across the gap between cars.

The next car was full of Africans. Johnny didn’t know much about Africans. “Maybe Ethiopians,” he mused. Johnny didn’t know anything about Ethiopians. It was all dark skin and colored fabrics and smelled like people that weren’t his own. Carefully, Johnny slinked through to the end of the car.

The next car after was almost completely empty. Only one small woman sat facing Johnny. Her thin hair dangled from beneath the hood of her coat. Her wide eyes were fixed on Johnny. “A salamander,” Johnny decided. The old woman licked her cracked lips. It was too much. Johnny went back to the Ethiopians.

“King Black. There must be a King Black I can grovel alcohol from,” Johnny thought. He looked around for the biggest most colorful African. What did an alpha Ethiopian look like? Johnny didn’t need to ponder. A loud clicking voice brought the car’s attention to an old fat man in a green cloak. The fat man motioned Johnny over. Johnny obeyed.

The fat King wore a golden collar and had a crooked nose, twice broken. He patted his lap, so Johnny sat on the fat king’s lap. He said something in a language Johnny didn’t know. “What?” The king made the same noise. “What?” said Johnny.

Johnny acted. He raised an invisible bottle to his lips and staggered about to the noise of the African’s approval. The Black King gave Johnny a gift of a bottle of rum from his suitcase. Johnny shook the fat man’s hand and posed as the car took pictures of the two men with cell phones.

“The return of the ambassador,” said Johnny, showing the bottle of rum “Mm. My Mr. Ambassador. Where are we going?” “Heaven,” said Johnny and took a swig from the bottle. Eleanor did likewise.

Strutland Station

I took the train to Strutland station
To buy some elation
Say Mr. Who you gonna know?
Say Mr. Who where you gonna go?
Well then it was busway up to Butler
Found some beetles for my fingers
I walked into the shop
And for an hour lingered
I noticed I was late
I caught the morning boat
An old man missed the fair
Ran his fingers through his hair
Hat crumpled in his hands
He struggled all the way
Met a girl began to chat
In the breeze she began to laugh
Her name was Nick
Her brother’s sick
I nodded off
And stared into the waves
She wanted my hat
So I gave her that
On the island got a shave
Passed the bank of old Sinclair
Wonder what goes on in there
Bought a brand new short sleeve shirt
For more than it was worth
All alone in the beachside glow
My song came on the radio

Lizard Nick I

Lizard Nick coughed and spat blood into the snow covered sidewalk. The buildings on either side were set far back in the trees. Nick shivered, pulled tight his coat, and scurried through the morning, dragging behind him a dead peacock, which had long since congealed and ceased leaving stains on the snow. “What a mess. To whom can I turn to? I’m amazed I got out alive. There’s a person, now.” 

Coming up the road from the other direction, a woman stumbled through the snow. She had cradled in her arms a bundle of twigs. “Hey woman. Give me your twigs.” “Sick man,” she said. “What?” “Sick man with a bird in his arm.” “It’s a peacock.” “Keep it away.”

Nick can see the woman clearly now. She wears a brown frock coat that hangs open and tall boots. Underneath, a red shirt is tucked into her belted waist band. The woman eyes Nick suspiciously and positions herself to avoid him. Nick blocks her way. “Listen, woman. Have heart. My peacock and I have stumbled for many minutes through the cruel snow. We are tired and in need of warmth.” “You’re a dirty boy.” “Maybe so, dear widow. It’s a terrible thing to leave a boy to suffer when he needs help.” “What’s that bird?” “This? It’s merely an honorary bird. It’s the kind of thing any respectable youth might carry around for status.” “I don’t like it. Put it down.” “I can’t do that. It’s my property. I cannot abandon my property here in the middle of the road.” “Get out of my way.” “Am I in your way?” “You’re a dirty sick man.” “Your heart is cold as the snow.” “I’ll call the police.” “There are no police around for miles, dear widow. Only yourself and yours truly.”

“Listen,” Nick says, and the camera zooms in on his face. “This bird will be eaten by my bedfellow and I. It will be boiled and mashed, creamed and sliced, and fried in a fine butter wine. The feathers will be made into prayer beads, and the eyes into a rope for my bedfellow to hang himself with. Nothing can entice me to release this bird. This bird is my meal. A man is nothing without a dead bird.” Nick emphasized the word nothing. “Then I’ll go,” the woman says, and she walks straight ahead at Nick. Nick obstructs her way. “Maybe you don’t understand, dear widow. I will not be stopped.” Lizard Nick reaches into his mouth and pulls out a red handkerchief. Tied to the red handkerchief is a blue handkerchief, followed by a green one and an orange one and a teal one. Nick coughs and out of his mouth beetles fly. “I ah no oriary mah,” he says…