Enya

The world is fog and mist. Lupus, on my right, hacks the mad cough. The
fog swirls slightly in repose. Above us, the light wanders widly and I
count each photon crossing ferry on the night. He stands across from me,
smoking that cigarette of his. It is white, and so's the soft skin of
her legs. I'm somewhere over there by the coughing and the distant light
of orion. The bowl is cash, though, and the accounts have been over
drawn. There's not much else to do but hunch over my pager and
contemplate.

What to ponder? Are we two mice bent on world domination? The dice hit
the paper and the pages ripple slightly. Its all physics, see. F = ma.
The parabolic equation driven by ballistic porportions. What was the
angle of the throw? What is the g constant? What is the friction
coefficiant of paper? What price bananas. Are you my devil in a blue
dress?

Always, the laughter. It burbles up as the dice pound. Send in the
clowns? Are we sick of questions? She pushes my leg away and exhales.
The resin cracks against the dust, sending up little joyous particles.
They follow the path up, channeling potential energy from kinetic energy
at an invwrse ratio until kinetic crashes and potential is unlimited.
180 degree turn. My life.

The indians apply drone to their music. Its a universal om. Scientists
say that the om is beige. I'm not quite so sure, I think its a bit more
off white. Tide would have a ballgame with this. Oh, we thought the
universe was white. We even names it mr. White. And, then, tarantino
co-opted him for a flick. He ends up dead. The universe wavers and then
blinks out.

~ For we walk by faith, not by sight ~

Feebage

I would have written last night, but events, perhaps compelled by
jupiter making passes at saturn or something, conspired to keep me
working overtime. I'm convinced that all requests for someone to work
overtime should come during acts of fellatio. For some reason, I would
prefer that this particular transaction be pronounced in the old english
vernacular. I imagine it would sound something like this:

"Forsooth. Wouldst thou work late for us?"
"Verily. Hath thou sent thine blow wench"
"Avast. She nears"
"I shall then proceed to drop trou"

Unfortunetly, there was no blow wench. The request for overtime was
given by a tall, scraggly romanian who smelled as if he had rolled
around in an ash tray from an AA meeting.

Feebage proceeds normally. I have sinced learned that wednesdays are for
tv luvin'. 7pm begins my passion. 8 finds me rubbing up against the
curved screen. At 9, I'm frantically looking for a way to connect to the
tv, in that way. 10 rolls me onto the carpet, hunched in the fetal
position with bubbles of spit running down my chin. The tv wanders off
to smoke a cigarette with the very late blow wench. A curtain descends.
Cue melodic music, a cough, and a vestige of any pride I might had
before I graduated university. Fin.

On the up side ill be back on two wheels soon. I'm excited. T is
excited. The only thing I don't anticipate is the constant droning and
whining of the parental units. I wish I had my own place so that I
wouldn't have to hear them complain about it, but that's just how the
philly rolls.

They're armed and brazen, the tv says. Well, I'm armed too. Hell, I'm
even legged. I'm so not impressed.

~ For we walk by faith, not by sight ~

The cigarette glow

The cigarette glowed red in the night. I waved a moebius and the
light streaked around while strips of ashen paper fluttered helplessly
to the ground.

"Bored?

"No. Wistful, I think." I dragged. The smoke rushed through my mouth
and down my brachial tubes before charging the narrow passages of my
lungs. The alveoli put up one hell of a fight, but the smoke
eventually overwhelmed their small clusters and dragged the cilia into
a darkened alley for, presumably, a nicotine gang rape. I kind of
felt bad for my lungs, but quality cigarettes cost money and USA Gold
was cheap. At least, I reasoned, I was able to acquire menthols but, I
doubted that consolation was enough for the cells that survived the
onslaught of chemicals and staggered out from the wino-soaked alley,
reeking of rolled dice and bearing the insignia of Phillip Morris.

I learned to smoke in the cool afternoons outside Clerc, where the
metal ringed around the sloping cement of the wheelchair ramp.
Overhead, the cherry trees dropped stunning leaf bombs on unsuspecting
shoulders in little shock and awe attempts. Deaf people, however,
aren't fazed by much, especially when there's talking to be done and
classes to be avoided. We avoided class, too. I can't quite remember
the reason why, but I suspect it had something to do with the
availability of smokes, the sweet acid of the air, the colorfulness of
a fall afternoon, and the supple behinds of many of the women who
entered Clerc building. The menthol bit my tongue and I watched a
marshmallow of a friend wander up. His hair waged a perpetual war with
his scalp. Some brown strands were askew in disarray while others
branched out into a Burt Reynolds sneer. A large shirt hung loose
against his pompous belly and his shorts bunched wildly. "Jon, can I
bum a smoke?"

"Always." I gave him one and he lit up.

The night was cold and the stars looked like Calder mobiles. We took
deep hits a half-hour before and my mind was happily playing in the
grass. I stopped to stroke it lovingly. It was cute and I told it that
I would take care of it forever and that I would keep it safe in my
arms if necessary. Together, we would travel the world and root the
finest in women. Tom kicked it past the twenty-yard line. I stood on
the fifty and watched it hit the ground. It rolled, picked up some
dirt, and then settled in the lush.

"Jon?"

"Tom, you just trashed my mind."

"Then I'm doing something right. You know, Jon, the moon is moving
away from us at the speed of several feet a year. In a few thousand
years, people aren't going to have the ability to enjoy the moon in
the same way we have."

I felt a tear stroll down my face. It took a leisurely junction at the
base of my nose, said how-do to a blackhead, and continued its merry
way to the ground. The moon was quite silver and multi-faceted rings
laced the sky around it. The man on the moon bickered noisily with the
rings. I watched his silver image bounce jovially. "I really wish you
didn't tell me that."

"It's all science."

"I really don't care what it is. Now I can't stop thinking of all the
people who won't have the same beauty we have."

He cocked his head and laughed his mirthless laugh. It echoed across
the football field and somewhere in Benson, a light turned on. An afro
clamored against the window and we could see its silhouette stretch
across the field.

The cigarette was nubbed. I tossed it aside. It bounced against the
tar and skittled into the rear wheel of my motorcycle. The bike looked
at it disdainfully and continued looming against the placidness of the
street light.

"Where were you?"

"I was at Gallaudet. Remember Tom?"

"What of him?"

"I wonder what happened to him."

"He's got a government job in Austin now. Quite fat, too. I don't
think he ever got his degree" Rich put out his cigarette.

"That's quite a shame," and we were on his stoop. Rich wore his jacket
with the heft of the cold which wouldn't stop grasping our nuts with
all the tact of an old hooker. Tom didn't have a jacket. His
marshmallows kept him warm. Despair and resignation sat on the steps
beneath us and talked happily of tomorrow. Tom kicked in a fence and
threw it into our oil can nucleus. It lay still for a second before
crackling as the flames licked its chops. Blue smoke ringed the can
and crept warily out into the air. I watched the smoke congeal
slightly and waver when the wind from a passing car chanced to meet
it. "Tom, I don't think this paint is safe to breathe. It's kind of
old and I bet it has lead in it."

"I know. I'm liking the lead."

Rich wobbled. "The lead is making me feel floaty."

"I can hear my brain cells matriculate." Tom laughed that laugh. He
has cork balls, I have brass balls, and Rich has steel balls. Tom pulled out a smoke.

Rich is sitting next to me in the parking lot in front of my apartment. We
have an empty bottle of port between us, some dirty glasses, and a
half-empty pack of USA Gold Menthols (three bucks a pack). My bike is
in front of us and some drunken girls wave happily from the tops of
their pumps.

"I wonder what would have happened had I stayed at Gallaudet."

"You would have gotten laid and ended up with some rich, Georgetown
floozy who looks good in glasses and a skirt."

"You're probably right. And yourself?"

"I would have fled screaming into the night."

"How depressing."

"But, you should see where we are now?"

"What do you mean by that?"

He laughed and pulled another cigarette out of the box.

I am in her arms. They tuck themselves neatly under mine and fold up
where they can touch the back of my shoulder blades. I feel a finger
linger on my spine. It radiates happiness. The weight of her head
presses against my collarbone. I ring back to count the freckles on
her neck. They trail down to her shirt and disappear. I kiss her
cheek. She squeezes her body into mine and then pulls back to rope me
with her eyes. "Where were you, Jon"

"Bloomington." I brush hair out of her face.

"What were you dong there?"

"Tracing my steps to heaven."

Rebirth

     Ah. Writing. I haven’t done this in awhile. At least not that anyone other that Mara has seen. I really ought to write. A few people have sent some inquiries and were met with the usual stoic response. So, not much has happened to me other than the usual giddiness of a wonderful relationship. I figured no one wanted to hear the natty details of my concupiscence. Life, other than that, is feebage. I feeb 56 hours a week. For this, I went through school.
     I do, however, recognize the need to write. The question, though, is what to write. I really don’t have much to write about, and even less to think about. What can I add to the already maddening crowds of political and religious ranting? When I was living life, my experiences were fresh and now I’m fed stale experience by some kind of latent duck feeder. I peck at the crumbs hungrily, looking for existential stipulation. I look forward to getting back on two wheels. Certainly, death and parental abuse are a given while riding, but at least life is marginally enjoyable, beyond love.
     So, a site tells me to keep my blogs rather short. This is doable. I’ll be more likely to write daily if I can pull something off in under a half hour. I’m sure I can direct my hand away from my dick for a half hour and pound out something decent for y’all peepers. I’ll keep everything under 500 words, unless something really riles me up or I post one of my stories. I bought a writer’s guide and have been perusing it. Every story I write will come up here in some form. Isn’t that groovy?
     
     D out.