Avocados

It was so terrible when I asked that nice guy with the Bluetooth who I always see heating up his lunch in the kitchenette, I asked him if there were any extra spoons around. I wanted to eat this avocado half I had in a baggie that I was kind of hiding behind the coffee maker while I asked b/c it was kinda gross, but you know, so delicious.

And, as I’m asking, this cute guy- cute like he’s young and fit and seeing him in a tie and collar doesn’t make my neck itch (wears it well) and of course he’s suave, all “I have a spoon. Let me get it”

“no no, you don’t have to… it’s not a big-“

“It’s right around the corner” and now he’s already backtracking and I’m stuck hiding the baggie and the other guy has some in-conclusion-stranger-sympathy “weird-cuz-in-a-kitchen-you’d-expect…” remark that is described with so many hyphens, obviously, and I’m over-thinking it, but then you know, that is also his Exit Remark and I’m left in the room alone and where is this other guy? I thought he said right around the corner- should I have followed him so I would know where to give the spoon back, and by not knowing his name or desk I’m not setting up talking to him again or for that matter returning THE SPOON, THE SPOON: it was about being decent that’s all and what the fuck now I’m alone in here, trying to be nonchalant but not really with anything to do. I could duck out. He comes back.

Thank you so much do you want this back?

“it’s disposable…” ok. Then. (of course he doesn’t want back a disposable fucking spoon!) (Why the fuck would you bring an avocado for lunch and no spoon! And then not know what to do about it? Ka-rist!) And he keeps on walking right out and I take that avocado out and destroy it and throw out the bag and the skin and the spoon, all in about 7 seconds, which I hear is a significant amount of time and I finally leave the copy room.

All that, all that nonsense for a fucking shitty half of an avocado that has been out of the fridge for like four hours now and is getting kind of brown and not even good-mushy since I cut it still a little under-ripe. All that and we didn’t even jump into a storage closet to have sex, or talk or anything.

And my boss’s boss stops me in the hall and we are pleasant for a moment and as I say ta-ta I look back and there is that guy like ten feet away and coming and what do I do? Turn around immediately and head back to my cubicle, not looking back.

And when I get there I throw my computer- monitor and all- out the window and yell and broken glass gets everywhere. Who knows whether the guy turns out to be a killer or not, or some kinda freak, who knows? Spoon-collecting freak.

I killed him with a fork.

Dead Spam

It's been perhaps a little over a year since --- died (She might have been named Esmerelda, Esme for short?). It was tragic, moreso than death is regularly, since she was young and all, and so unexpected.

Most of the people who knew her have come to some sort of terms, some kinda moving on, J included. He was (had been) friends with Esme. Really, she was his buddy's girlfriend, but she had immediately become a part of the group and a regular at their parties, their shenanigans (yeah I said shenanigans). When J was uncertain about getting a job, Esme had found the perfect thing for him- she knew someone with a workshop who needed a hand but was also into new design ideas, building concepts. J had some prototypes to show for it now.

They hadn't spent much time one-on-one but there was the afternoon they watched the Science channel and that long and side-tracked journey to the airport in Philly to pick his buddy up- where J was driving and Esme was navigating and it wasn't even until they got there that he realized the radio was off. Esme was like that.

So anyway, here we are now about a year later and J's stomach just turned over for a second to see Esme's name in his inbox, bold unopened. It's spam of course.

He can't help but click on it though. Esme, he's saying, in his temples.

If the computer screen wasn't so bright and stiff and mechanical

The next day it's three more. (Support my good friend with a small donation and get double back! I used this product and lost 30 lbs in 30 days! Pass this along to five people you know or the curse will be on you)

And so on, but he clicks. He clicks he clicks with some strange feeling, starts deleting them but never marking them spam and they keep coming, from Esme's account, more and more and more and it seems like he should do something about it, finally. Should he contact the service? Should he change his settings- J does not want to block Esme, Esme's name, her email. Her whatever it is.

It's stupid J.

He's talked to some other people and some are very upset, that are getting the messages too. It's only a few from the circle that really knew her, random choices- maybe more but not everyone mentioned it, probably, thinks J. But it still feels personal, seeing Esme and JBird335, two people he knows on that monitor.

Before his computer crashes

(J was not good with these things, only moderately average- the workshop was where it was at, for him. Computers were electrons jumping around, were an ether, were some undefined space

And keys and hardware...

But I was saying, before his computer crashes, J replies to one of the spams. Dear Esme,

Dear Esme,

I miss you (and he pauses here a long time, until the blinking cursor blurs and he looks away and there are spots in his eyes)

(and he really doesn't know what else to say. That he loves her? That he remembers her? That he will always? Or that hey, asshole, stop hacking my dead friends account! I know this is bullshit spam. I know I shouldn't open it, and you are toxic, and you are in no way Esme. Not even close.)

He deletes it all and starts over.

Dear Esme,

It has been a long time, and I have been really busy, but I'm excited to tell you about my new car and the new addition to the workshop, more importantly. We moved into that big space down on 25th street, over by where the theater used to be? There is great lighting and we are starting to get a lot of publicity now...

Later J gets a new email, but it was time anyway (business expanding, work requests). He never did see whether Esme responded to his response. Is glad that at least JBird will always buy her weight-loss products.

A question for the pillow and falling asleep: how infinite is cyberspace?

J thinks, he's halfway dreaming,

It's like the ocean recycling, always

Lapping at the beach

The Hand, a thriller

A freshly severed hand on a dark dresser top (an elegant dresser, carved and solid). Silent drip drip drip, red blood on the carpet, drip drip drip...

-------------------------------------------------------------

It's the near future, in a stem cell lab. Corporate, not the academic type.

Elmira Ramirez, Chief Scientist, marches down the long tile hall. Resounding click of high heels echoes

fluorescent lights.

Rats in cages, caged rooms.

(barbed wire at the guard station outside)

Progress.

ACCIDENT and she didn't make headlines because

it was taboo, a secret because

she was killing someone else in the struggle

a rival scientist? a jealous sister? pick one but the important part is that, in the struggle,

slice

ACCIDENT and

Chief Scientist implores,

Save that hand!

But it's gone (THAT HAND IS GONE)

Buried that hand with the body, but no hand is evidence too.

Where'd you lose that hand, Elmira?

Later, late night.

Awake in lab (glow) goggles.

frenzy

test tubes, petri dish, scalpel

and grafting with a scalpel

the latest unreleased secret- the "Re-Gens"- and

New hand takes seed.

----------------------------------

The new hand is not quite right.

something sinister

over time- evil

the new hand and the other hand begin to oppose one another until

the hands-off (hand vs. hand)

approaches mania.

A struggle!

The hand becomes destructive

Racing scene ensues:

In Elmira's house (urgency)

She staggers through the door (rocking on its hinge, left open)

snowy outside chill

night time air

to the bedroom

-low lights

dark mahogany and

cream plush carpets (white)

Battle Battle one hand has a

large knife!

(grabbed it in the kitchen, on the way in)

She is able to knock it away (Elmira, with the other hand)

it falls on the bed

Hours and Hours.... she fights

STANDING

arms apart, held with all

her strength

tension

persperation

the sunlight is starting to

creep over the snow horizon out the window.

it makes a tiny line on the wall and

Elmira stands as the sun rises

holding out

holding out

holding out

Final image:

A severed hand

at the wrist

bones and nerves stick out

laying on the hard

mahogony

camoflauge

next to the hairbrush

jewelery box

drip drip is silent, to the floor

enveloped by the plush carpet,

it's silent.

snow comes in the front door.

Elmira is gone.

The sun is up.

Hands and Keys

When you don't know what to sketch, draw what is in front of you.

The hands on the keyboard rest with poise, not unlike a pianist deciding what to play.The left hand more sprawled, arched, with fingertips brushing the numbers, the index finger lightly over r and the thumb on ever such a slight angle, hoovering above the space bar. The right hand is also relaxed, but in attack position, the fingers already running across jkl; and the palm making its own downward c.

The hands pause in this position and then pivot, digits lifting, seeking, testing the feel of many keys before making the push like beachcombers with metal dectectors, waiting for a signal, the right essence, to pull them in.

For a moment they leave, to press temples and scratch nose.

The sketch is coming along (knuckles crack), but pauses are becoming more frequent. The path has been veered off, somewhere, and the pull is now for delete delete... Yet, tap-tap-tap, the fingers hesitate, the hands reluctant to leave.

The right hand ring finger is preparing for the final stroke; the period. But suddenly it all seems so uncertain, so tenuous, the whole thing- was it just a warm-up, not the final dance?

And the hands realized the ending is not always a period

Walking Home

This alley

Is where the thief fled

After he robbed the boutique

Across the street

The owner didn’t see where he went

But noticed the

Troubled girl on the corner

Staring at her sneakers

She would grow up to be a lawyer

And a botanist

That Heineken truck almost hit her

Stepping off the curb

Stopping at the Royal Farms

(for a lighter)

This is where the lovers met

Reaching for the same scratch-off lottery ticket

They split the ten dollar winnings

On a coffee next door

And now climbing the hill

Past houses decorated for

Halloween

The old lady here

Once handed out

Nancy Drew’s until

Her whole collection was gone

And she sat back on her rocking chair

And smiled

The Catholic school on the corner

Smells like hot cider

Though no one is there

Except the ghost who

Keeps the basement dusty

Lights flash, sidewalk in strobe,

As the fire truck backs into the station

The newest fighter is

Just back from his first rescue

Still jumpy

Exhilaration

The Chief worries about

Pension plans

Plans that carry to the

Old folk’s home

At the top of the hill

Walker wars

They nod hello

Look out from benches, balconies

Across the crumbling cemetery

Punctuated by autumn leaves

And autumn dreams

The Chinese restaurant

A plot of money laundering?

Or is that at the

Launders on the next block?

A woman waits for the bus

With her newspaper

And a package fresh-wrapped

From the vintage store

Someone’s former bad date

Will be her

Winning 80’s party outfit

And it looks like the

Recycling has been picked up

Hopping the porch steps

Finally

Opening the door that has been

Opened thousands of times

At the quaint house

Nestled in

Where the girl rests on the

Couch and pulls out her

Notebook

Gets ready with her pen and

A fresh sheet

So the story can begin

Trying to Write a Novel

Farewell, my lovely

said Dahlia, holding a bouquet.

And every sentence was a fresh start

But all that was coming out was poetry

Some elusive vomit of communication

Michael replied

I won't forget you- not till

the Earth stops hurtling around the Sun

Sun-days after

Saturdays after

yesterday

Now he wasn't making sense anymore

A haystack of thoughts

There was no plot.

I just thought I'd start writing

Drinking coffee

Checking facebook

Listening to all these voices around me, a

chaotic storyline called dinner (because I'm sitting in a

diner) (trying to be a writer)

Really!

(I am)

Phone call.

And in the moments of distraction, I missed it.

Michael left.

Dahlia opened a Southwestern restaurant. On Christmas

she thought of him

and he smelled flowers as he stared at the fire.

a silly poem about puppies

Want a puppy or wanting to be a puppy

Warm laps;

lapped love

Licking and making my

soul wag

The park is less empty

Scented colors

(it must have been dogs that invented those markers, or

our desires to get in touch with puppies perhaps)

And never was there reluctance for the outing

or that which couldn't be cured by

a biscuit.

Murder Mystery, Part I

The charge was murder;

Death by Nine Iron in the

Ever-green yards of

Admiral's Terrace Club-

Tee for a light fee.

Elaine Helmherst lay

Half in the rose bush

Clumps of dirt on her

Off white- cream- pleated

skirt, recently pressed by

Patel and Sons for

Pickup at Eleven.

An eerie breeze brushed

The leafy maples in

Shades of Autumn, shading gray

The holes the carts the

Tar pathway

Golfers strolling back

In the setting oranges, light sweat,

Jogging as they reached

The Club and the

Autumn-yellow police tape.

Denise Valentine,

Drenched in consternation

Leaned over Elaine, frowned.

Her listen-to-me brown boot heels

Sank a bit in the moist ground

Left a double tooth mark circle

Around the body. The nine iron

(determined by the wound)-

Missing.

Chill air warned of a heavy implement

Out there, somewhere- contrived as a

Place not meant to be discovered-

Foreboding, disturbing.

The cool breeze brushed Denise

But Denise did not stir

Only squinted into the sun,

Turned her head, said,

“Gather everyone from the greens

And lockdown the Club. Tonight

Will be tedious and illuminating.”

“I'll make coffee” said Mrs. Porter,

White as an eighty-year-old woman

Wrinkly and wry

The Admiral's wife and a believer

In taking it all in stride.

The First and The Renegade Part I

There is a cowboy- not an actual bronco-wrangler but for some reason I'm thinking of him as the cowboy, it fits, though maybe The Renegade would be better. I like that better. It's like urban cowboy, it's the cowboy mystique without the wild west which is dissapointing with its strip malls and factory farms anyway. But the rocks are lovely.

So The Renegade, he is laying on his back across a couple of metal folding chairs in a row, looking lazy at the ceiling sometimes (there are big metal rafters up there, criss-crossing and peaking in the middle), sometimes eyes closed and you can't tell if he's awake. Basketball hoops are at either end of the row and people are hustling and bustling all around the perimeter, setting up for something. The Renegade blends into the very middle of it all, unnoticed but watching, or noticed but not bothered with, for just this moment. A door is open at the side of the gym (I guess it's a gym then, the rafter-building) and it is still daylight and it will be spring in three days but it is just close enough to pretend and to have a little pre-infatuation with the outdoors, which everyone is doing by leaving the door open. Plus, it's hot in there (all the people, lights).

The Renegade could be here or he could be miles away, dreaming about his previous lives, we still can't tell. He doesn't dress like a cowboy, but you could almost see the Stetson resting on his forehead so only a sliver is available to his eyes. Rolled up jeans and a cotton shirt, versatile looking sneakers that make him ready, all the time, for some kinda action, but they are kicked up just right, ankles crossed mid-chair and his body in a drawn out C shape slightly so he can fit on the row. Or maybe he is wearing boots, but nothing clunky. Athletic boots, that might be it, is that a thing?. He is like a lion on a rock in the middle of the savannah while creatures move about around about him and he is there but not, they know it, but not, and in five minutes this whole scene will be over and he will be animal again, not God.

There's a screech of feedback from the speakers, and a screeching chorus in response but The Renegade, he doesn't move, only closes his lids a little more and focuses on that one place where the beams are coming together up above. Everyone must leave the floor- he doesn't move- the lights are changing, someone is standing on a ladder with filters red-yellow-green-red-yellow, which The Renegade sees as dancing shadows and the announcement is made again- Okay, really this time, please go to your positions, we are going to start and now The Renegade stretches once and does a crunch up with his abs, turns to face front and notices there was someone sitting beside him, a chair away, for who knows how long now. She is adjusting her costume and smiles at him, says “Shall we?” and they both get up and walk to the side of the room with that door. The Renegade blinks, thinking where-did-she-come-from, (she is certainly not Savannah-brand) but no matter, it is all still flowing just fine, the people moving around this room, and it's time to start soon now so he asks her, “Are you ready?”

The show is over and the girl (who is Daisy) and The Renegade are packing up with everyone else, congratulating one another and laughing and taking photos. They are outside all loading up a van with lights and props and costumes. The soccer mom who owns it is efficient at packing everything in, used to mess but not to this drippy sticky makeup and it shows when she paws at her sweat with the back of her hand and catches herself, smearing (but she just laughs and someone takes a picture). After lifting and hauling for a while himself, The Renegade is waiting at the ready by the trunk but another man hands him a cigarrette and says simply, “hold this” and The Renegade complies while the man turns around and heads inside for a moment (through that same door that was letting the impending-spring in before, that is now letting out show-exhaust the other way). He stands and takes a drag, then Daisy comes up and takes a drag too, and the man comes back carrying a heavy trunk with another man and the cigarrette is kicked so The Renegade just puts it out with the heel of his boot (yeah, that was right, putting him in boots).

“R, come get a drink with us”, not “Will you get a drink with us?” but The Renegade wouldn't have said no anyway. He grabs his backpack, waves to the straglers left in the gym, and ambles up the sidewalk keeping three paces behind the rest of the group but a step ahead in their conversation. He is liked for obvious reasons and respected for ones less apparent. Daisy is hanging on to his arm and he lets her stay there, steers her away from parking meters and doesn't change a thing when she jumps ahead with her other friends before they arrive. He orders beer at the bar because he already had a whisky sour for lunch, but he does not refuse one of the tequila shots that appear after the first round.

The Renegade is sociable and good natured and when the crowd eventually splits, Daisy watches him walk away moving from pool of streetlamp to pool of streetlamp and she smiles to herself while she gets in the car. On the way home, The Renegade stops where the sidewalk is most quiet and looks up at the sky, the stars, the moonbeam rafters constructing the night and he feels a unique sort of bliss, a kindred-ness with the invisible people all around him, and a particular satisfaction.