The Air Above

amusing to consider something i said
thirteen years ago when we first met
in a single cavern of this house
it was not you who agreed to give
could not possibly have been you
the air above places has got to be
right and all, i said

[originally posted 6-30-2009]

A Storm

as solid as a stick
you remembered feline cruelty
turned, whistled softly
a cruel hurricane
no pattern
legs, arms, and chest
gotten there only by inches
she shrugged, gently

[originally posted 6-14-2009]

Big Leagues

She bit her lip,
thinking that it was a good game.
He smiled, then, glad to be playing.

[originally posted 5-16-2009]

An Elegy of Sorts

Surprised
I have remembered
The passing
Close to the end
It helped
We all knew we were
So large, so low
I have realized

[originally posted 6/17/09]

Radio

the message arrived the same day
he was diffidently at work by that time

listening to the news
words he had never heard
words indeed he had never even
listened to

what it meant to be freed
to be silenced of this babble
within him

leaving himself

[originally posted 5/31/09]

Song for Stevie Nicks to Sing

Hair, chains, honey
undone, an array
old and sickly
a song.

[originally posted 5/24/09]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 3

It was 10:30 by the time I felt sufficiently revived to venture out of the office into the streets. The first place I went was to the bank where I cashed a check for $100. From there I made my way to a barber shop where [a saint with scissors] managed to get me looking somewhat respectable.

The next stop was a Goodwill resale shop where I picked out a cliched sort of movie detective outfit: dark suit, tan overcoat, and a battered but not beaten fedora. I was hoping that Curt would get the joke. Things were going well and showed every sign of continuing that way. I returned to the office where I changed into my getup.

When I called the public library to ask for information about Ramiland, I was connected to a very friendly and helpful librarian. She sounded like she'd be a lot of fun when she wasn't being a librarian. She didn't know anything off hand about Ramiland but told me that she could locate some sources for me if I wanted to come by and pick them up. I told her that was fine. I told myself not to get too excited about the librarian. She was probably about 70-years-old and most likely had a figure like a baby elephant.

She wasn't and she didn't. At the library, we had a pretty good time talking. She thought my detective outfit was as amusing as it was supposed to be. She had been, though, only able to find articles in two magazines, which she handed over to me with a wink.

And here, dear reader, my story grinds to an expository halt never to recover, except for this brief passage:

It was around 2:00 when I finished reading. The librarian I returned the magazines to was 70-years-old and did have the figure of a baby elephant. She had a pretty voice and I was in a good mood so I flirted with her for a little bit. We didn't exchange phone numbers, though, and I didn't even get a wink.

-30-

[originally posted 6/5/2009]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 2

My clothes were in even worse shape than my hair. The Hawaiian tourist shirt had never been the height of fashion and was now just barely wearable. It did go, more or less, with the Army surplus fatigue pants I had on. The splotch of puke, my own or someone else's I couldn't remember, on my right thigh came pretty close to matching the flowers on the shirt. I didn't think Curt or his family would appreciate that too much.

I looked around the lovely Black Diamond Detective Agency for something else to wear but couldn't find anything. I did find my checkbook in a pair of black-and-pink checked pants that I couldn't remember ever wearing. Looking at them now, I was glad that I didn't. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had $450 in my account. It was obviously money left over from the last time I had worked as a laborer on a construction site. I certainly hadn't worked on a $450 case for a least a year. As a matter of fact, I hadn't worked on a case of any kind -- cases of beer excluded -- for 6 months. Maybe I'd been working on too many cases of beer.


(To Be Continued)

[originally posted 6/4/2009]

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 1

Note: Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 9:45 in the morning when the ringing of the telephone ended my sweet dreams. I know it was exactly 9:45 in the morning when the telephone rang because I'm a detective and I get paid to remember little details like that. It had been a long time since I'd been paid for remembering little details, though, so I did a fairly good imitation of a man leaping out of bed to answer the phone. The imitation was flawed because I was sleeping on the floor of my office and only had to roll over on my side to answer the phone. As far as I was concerned, I was leaping out of bed and it's the thought that counts.

"Uh, yeah, what do you want?" I interrogated my caller.

"This is Black Diamond Detective Agency, isn't it?" I allowed that it was and further admitted that I was George Blake, head honcho. "George," the caller continued in much happier and excited tones, "this is Curt Simonson. I just got into town a couple of days ago and I thought I'd give you a call to invite you over."

"Oh, hello, Curt. It's been a long time. You've been off in Africa or someplace, right?"

"That's right. I've been doing fieldwork in Ramiland in eastern Africa. The political situation got pretty hot so I decided it was about time to come home to the family for awhile."

"So you're back at "the Mansion," eh? I think I can still remember how to get there. What time do you want me?"

"Around 3:30, if you can make it. And, George, I may have to ask you to mix a little business with pleasure."

"That's fine with me. Lord knows I could do with a little of both. I'll see you at 3:30, then. 'Bye." I hung up and began getting ready for the upcoming reunion. The first thing I needed, I saw when I finally located a mirror under a pile of old newspapers on my desk, was a shave and possibly a haircut. A haircut soon became a necessity when it became obvious that no amount of combing was going to produce any style other than grubby. It'd been a long time since I'd dealt with anyone who would mind hiring a detective whose hair was grubby.

(To Be Continued)

[originally posted 6/3/09]

Different Rather Than Difficult

Uncertain, the vital seconds went by
He said unhappily,
"Don't ask me how."
A vague recollection
different rather than difficult
A sudden sense of a picture
From behind her
He parted her lips
And thought finally, desperately.

[originally posted 5/3/09]

A House But Not A Home

The process of bringing the
house up to the standards of
Jean Harlow's ghost was
difficult, to say the least.

[originally posted 3/20/2009]
[written circa 1978/1979]

And Away You Go

He would have inquired
after them
had the ghosts of the house
not spirited
him away.

[originally posted 4/6/2009]
[written circa 1978/1979]

Notes from a Conversation

Hell, he said.

Alone, she said.

Anything, he said.

Wait, she said.

Wish, he said.

No, she said.

[originally posted 4/30/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

The Office

"welcome"
amiable, careful
"up to date"
i didn't listen
"pay attention"
completely out of touch
jabbering at me.
"manager," he said.

[originally posted 6/12/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

Dragon

we were all excited
we would have dodged
fire struck
from her breath
but by the time
we started out
sudden darkness
scapegoats invented

[originally posted 6/18/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

Eggs! No!

He had already
decided that
the eggs
had to go.
Smooth.
Round.
White.
Unbearable.

[originally posted 5/13/09]

http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

November '54

the cold November of 1954
remains in mind
like a shadow-soul caught
between heaven and hell.

[originally posted 5/8/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com
[written circa 1979/1980]

Dr. Benway Consults

he told his patient that
he had often cured such a mania
but that just in case
he should find
a transistor radio

[for William S. Burroughs]

[originally posted 4/23/09]
http://contraptionstl.blogspot.com

A Short Story With No Moral #4

There was once a young woman who was obsessed with obsequiousness. She had heard someone being referred to as obsequious, liked the way it sounded, and resolved to one day become obsequious herself.

Unfortunately, the young woman was not entirely sure of what the word meant. Being of a somewhat proud nature, she was reluctant to ask anyone for a definition. The young woman was convinced, however, that to be obsequious was to be grand and important.

The picture the young woman had in her head was of herself, dressed in the most beautiful gown in the world, descending a marble staircase that ended in a huge ballroom filled with the most elegant of the elegant. As she came into sight, heads would turn in her direction, there would be gasps, and someone would say quietly to her friend, "Isn’t she just too too obsequious?"

On only one occasion did the young woman ever tell anyone about her dreams of obsequiousness. She happened to have been in bed with a young man of whom she was quite fond -- dreams of marriage alternated with dreams of obsequiousness -- and they were exchanging secrets of the heart. The young man had just finished telling the young woman of his longing to be the manager of a Denny’s restaurant when the young woman suddenly blurted out, "I want to be obsequious!"

The young man laughed. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. The young woman, who on rare occasions might say "please" or "thank you," and who would butt in lines and when asked to pass something at the dinner table would say, "You’ve got arms. Get it yourself," wanted to be obsequious. It was to laugh.

The young woman, however, did not laugh. She was deeply hurt and angry. She thought that the young man was laughing at her for wanting to be grand and important. She thought he was laughing at her dreams. "Get out," she screamed at the young man. "Get out of my bed! Get out of my house! And get out of my life!"

The young man sat in stunned silence for a moment, very quietly said, "O.K.," and wordlessly got dressed, gathered up his things and left the apartment.

That was the last the young woman ever saw of the young man. She would often think of that night and how things had gone wrong. As the years went by, she grew more and more convinced that the young man had meant to hurt her and, thus, she grew to hate him. Eventually, her hate grew too much for just the one young man and she began to hate all men.

One day she received a letter notifying her that her aunt had died leaving her five million dollars. "I’m rich," she thought, "I can quit my job and do anything I want. I can be obsequious now. First, I’ll go out and buy myself the most beautiful gown I can find."

The woman, who by this time as no longer young, made plans to throw a huge party in the most exquisite hotel in Vienna, Austria. She invited everyone who was anyone, and a few who weren’t, and she even invited the man, who was also, of course, no longer young, who had hurt her.

After months of preparations, the day of the party finally arrived. The woman boarded the jet airliner that would carry her to Austria. She was eating caviar and drinking champagne when the airliner went into a nosedive and crashed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

News of the disaster reached the party at midnight. At first a hushed silence fell over the crowd. Finally, a Texas millionaire broke the silence. "Well, shucks, as long’s were all here, let’s make this the best goddamn wake Vienna, Austria’s ever seen!"

And so they did.

[written circa 1982/1983]

Roldo the Fish-Headed Boy

Roldo was a boy
(that is, he was a young human
with a penis
who differed from the rest of his society
in that he had the head of a fish

Roldo was a bright boy
he was good at math
and at reading and writing
and he could ride a bicycle like
nothing
but, still, he had the head of a fish

Other boys were often cruel to Roldo
girls, (young humans with vaginas)
were also cruel to him
they (the boys and girls) made up a song

The song was about Roldo
when he would ride by on his bicycle
they would sing:
Roldo the fish-headed boy
he’s so ugly we want to cry
he’s a fish and he should fry
and then they would laugh

The singing and laughing hurt Roldo
but he loved riding his bike too much to
stop

Roldo would often ride blocks
and blocks out of his way to avoid
other children and thus was sometimes
late in arriving at home
where he mother and father would be
anxiously awaiting his return

Mother and Father were worried about Roldo
they felt guilty about inflicting a fish-headed child
on the world and the world
on a fish-headed child
and they were afraid that something would
happen to him and somehow their guilt would be
revealed

But, still, they loved Roldo and when he would
return in tears they would hug and kiss him
and tell him that everything would be alright
and though they hadn’t really believed it
as the years passed things did begin to get better

Roldo’s fish-headedness became less and less
Until one day Roldo was just an average
boy
and went out riding his bike
and no one laughed or sang

[written circa 1981/1982]