Murder

           This was to be much harder than I’d imagined. How was I to kill, without being killed. It would be tricky, yes. To slip in there undetected, slit his throat or shoot him and beat my retreat hastily. I had never met the man. Had never seen him. Had no real hate or animosity towards him. Hell, he could even be a nice guy. I would never find out for I killed him that very night.

            I bought the trailer for next to nothing. It was such a bargain. Living on my menial income, I could not pass it up. Thomas, who worked with me at the little factory doing our little tasks making our little wages, said they were not trailers for they hauled nothing. They were mobile homes. I disagreed inside and unto myself only for my little trailer hauled me through many a lonely fog-drenched night.

            The fog. How deep it seemed to peer through. How searchingly eager my little car’s headlights sought, going to and from, my little job. I hated the fucking job. I hated Thomas. I hated……..hate.

            I grew up on the Island. It doesn’t matter where for an island is an island whether it is made up of rock and sand and brush or whether it is made up in your mind. In the dank dark basement that you never clean and never show anyone. Musty, dusty, and rusty.

            My little black and white TV blinked through the night. As I said, I held no malice and knew him not. But a job to do I had and a job to do I did. No payment was to be received other than the satisfaction of a job well…….well done.

            Do it, the job, then my clean clean Getaway. No McQueen or McGraw or Kim or a Baldwin brother but my own clean clean Getaway.

            The Island reeked this time of year of body odor, fish, beer, cigarette smoke and vomit. I do not like vomit.

            I do like popsicles. The sun. A gentle breeze on a cool, non humid, summer’s night. I like dogs. Never had one. Dad, that man, said they stank. Dad, that man, was vomit.

            My little propane tank heated my little trailer on the nights after my little job. My little car took me home that night through the fog and the smell of vomit. I killed him there by the propane tank. This man I’d never met.

           The muzzle was cold.

Beyond Brothers

Larry

1956-1973

I dream of death's
sweet dew of rot

My chest caves in
forget me not

Your tears should fall
not on my stone

Why weep thee thou
when no one's home

My life did pass
as leaf from tree

And glimpsed
have I

Eternity

Four Speeds

The Sport has four gears. That's plenty. Five would be better for the interstate but eff the superslab. Give me a country lane any day. Of course, the four speed did not come from: The Motor Company, trouble free. They have a common problem of shoving third gear through the right-side case. The problem first manifests itself in hard shifting. To avoid this, remove the cam and grind the sharp edges down. Problem solved. Of course, there is work involved but your efforts will be rewarded with a smooth shifting tranny and no third gears through the right case.


I'm a four speed. I know. My co-workers will tell you differently. My shifter cam has been ground and my gears mesh somewhat smoothly. It took work and time but I'm sorta' there.


We all long for a mate. Someone with which our gears, working together, shift smoothly. Somewhere around age 57 or so I found one. Found her. It took work and time to achieve said mating but efforts, on both our gears, cams, and stuff. Found fruition.

So get life's manual out and roll up your sleeves.

Sunday Mourning

Sunday Mourning

I've broken all ten, to be sure
at least tried

Reverend Angel
can you see me?

I would hide my shoes
pretending them lost

There were egg cartons on the back wall
much, as on Hee-Haw

Pretty, pretty little white church
45 minute altar calls

Just As I Am
Without One Plea

Benches of wood
felt of hard cold steel

Winter-spring
summer-fall

It burned to the ground
I

Was nowhere
near there

That summer
night

1968
July 13

3:14 a.m.
Sunday Mourning

The Sky Is Falling

   If you are already unstable, keep the TV off. We are all unstable in our unique and gifted ways. Shootings here and shootings there. ISIS. A war we are still fighting in Afghanistan. The Middle East. Murders around our corner. Keep the news turned off. But we like to know what is going on. Around our corner and the Middle East.

   My grannie was cool. Drank scotch with her cold coffee in the AM. Watched three little black and white televisions at once. She, unique and unstable in her gifted ways, was born in 1903. I reveled in her stories of WWI and II. "We all thought, in each world struggle, it was the end times," she'd say. Revelation come to pass.

   I'm a boomer and a student of history. My father served in Korea. I, unfortunately, never served.

   I detest talking politics and admit I do not always vote. But I love a strong leader. In my world, I'd love to see Ronnie cloned. When he ran against Jimmy, I voted for Jimmy. The next election, I voted for Ronnie.

  War is ugly. But that is war. Ugly, vile, and to be avoided. We should have learned a war of attrition is to no avail. It breaks my heart to think of German cities flattened with innocents harmed. The horror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But both of these counties flourish in our current time. General Sherman and his march to the sea. Pure horror. War. If our young people are to be put in harm's way, all stops should be pulled. Ugly, vile, and horrific.

   So turn off the news. When the end times come we will do what we have always done. Help and support each other.

  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do. And......The news is on.

Mutate And Survive

   An experiment. Much as Henry David's. More Helen Keller perhaps. For I am blind in this world of virtual.                                                                                                                                                          Much is going on. Like ants, we scurry hither and yon, collecting information. Always questioning.    How do I send this message in a bottle. This, this tapping on a wall.                                                                                                              Mutate......and......survive.