constanly amazed

constantly amazed

We draw strength from the decay around us,

 like children playing on the banks of a poisoned river,

we cleanse ourselves in foul water and coagulated fat.

Never stuck,

we draw butterflies on the inside of our concentration camp walls

and blow them alive and away

over the razor wire to

alight on the limb of the old cypress tree.

Hand in hand we leave fresh tracks

in the ash of cities in riot

and skip stones

off the reflection of the blood moon.

We are not the red flesh

pasted to a white wall

of a preschool

surrounded by cop cars

and media vans.

We are not the shooter within.

We are not what travels in and out

 of our mouths and our assholes.

We just happened upon this place;

to us there is only beauty.

So we coo to each other in museum whispers;

constantly amazed by the end of the world.

The execution of a demigod

The execution of a demigod

By Daniel Landes

The house was set beneath the navel of the reposed form of our universe.  It was deeply rooted in bedrock, shale and divine purpose.  The putrid winds that blew from the north buffeted the foundation, and pelted the shingles and siding in a relentless effort to reduce the house to a granular form.  The house withstood the torment and continued to shelter the tragic players as they accepted providence.  Inside the walls of the house, the elemental battle for balance played out, again, and again and again. 

The blowing leaves of the trees, planted as a windbreak on the north side of the house generations before, were brittle with draught.  The sound was of shattering glass as the leaves chafed against each other in the morning wind.  The precious dew, here and gone, never settled long enough for the dehydrated cells of the leaves to rejuvenate.

The child was pacing as early morning light shone through gossamer curtains of her bedroom window.  The torn and crumpled pages from Leaves of Grass were strewn across the floor, like crumpled love notes filled with the poetics of unfulfilled promises.  From the rafters above her bed hung a mobile of the nine planets and their moons, made in school from Styrofoam balls.   Pints of spilled paint, red and green, pooled under the windowsill and swirled together as a random blue creation.  The nightlight flickered, preparing for daybreak.  The child’s mind, red with fury, was empty but for the plan.   She thought only of the plan. 

The man awoke from his narcotic slumber with a full bladder and covered in the humid sheen of night sweats.  He arose, relieved himself, and then went to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.  As he did every morning, he turned on the radio and waited for the crop report.  The water filtered through the ground burnt beans and drip, drip, dripped into the awaiting pot.  A detached, monotone voice, reported the news; the record breaking heat wave continues as the draught worsens, the daily tally of solider corpses from the Endless Wars adds up, and the diverting scandals of politicians never ceases.  It was the oceans, not the wars, not disease, that was the new pandemic, killing millions as they claimed higher and higher ground, wiping out cities like sandcastles. The man, sipping his coffee, waited for the crop report. 

In her room the child stopped pacing and stood as still as a statue.  Her balled fists barely peeked out from the flared arms of her nightgown, ankle length, made from soft cotton in a place far away by evil means.  She would soon be free of it, her death shroud.  She stood waiting in the blue grey light of dawn thinking of nothing but the plan. 

The man, a moneyman, a farmer of sorts, owned fertile land above the encroaching seas on which he grew corn.  Acres and acres of Holy Corn. 

Ghosts don't stay buried

Ghosts don’t stay buried

I am pressed up against the edges of Denver.  The hidden stories of this city are the only thing that keeps my interest.  Stories we tried to bury and stories we are trying to bury now.  The stories that get my attention are of wretched acts of treachery and demonic acts of man.  Stories so dark they have to be buried deep beneath this city so we can try to forget them.  Stories that should stay buried.

We don’t want to know just how uncivilized we behave or remember when rivers of blood jumped the banks of the Platte River and Cherry Creek. We would assume forget the scalps and carcasses that stacked up on both sides of the Frontier Wars.  It’s gone now, buried, and we ride bikes on the graves and feel good about our efforts to not drive.  The stories will not stay buried.  Nothing stays forgotten.

{}

Only half the train whistles you hear passing through the crease of Denver in the middle of the night are real.  The other half are the screeches of the ghost train signaling it’s passing through a town that existed one-hundred some odd years ago.  A time when things that glittered on the sandy shores of our rivers got men laid and got men killed.  It is the whistle of the ghost train passing through a town that reeked of pine smoke and the by-product of human encampments.   The whistle of the ghost train, a warning signal of its slow approach into the forgotten depot near the confluence of the Platte and Cherry Creek.  

When the ghost train arrives at the station the people who get off are not alive.  They are ghosts; poor souls who did not stay buried.  They did not understand where to go when their hearts stopped beating so they stay here with us, without substance.  They go about their daily lives, just like they did a hundred some odd years ago in Denver City.  They exist beside us, participating in the commerce and civics of a by-gone era with as much conviction of their realness as you or I do, as we go about our daily lives.

If you can shut your mouth and open your ears for just a minute you can hear them.  They are everywhere.  They tell stories.  Stories of a time we would assume forget.  A time when the rivers ran with blood and we stacked carcasses like cordwood.

Cucumber 5 ways

This is piece of flash fiction based on this prompt from Brian Polk.  "Do you have any idea why I pulled you over today?"

Cucumber 5 ways

Our love made all other love seem pallid and weak.   We felt sorry for the couples not nearly as in love as us.  ‘Let’s never be boring in our love’ she said as we drew hearts on the table with the sugar jar.  ‘Never,’ I said with stars in my eyes; constellations only she could read.  ‘That waitress is so jealous of our love.  Right?’ she asked after the waitress wiped up the table for the second time and asked if we were ready to order.  ‘Poor thing probably has an ordinary love,’ I replied.  ‘Like that couple over there, look at him, he’s reading the paper and she’s reading a paperback book.  How sad, they aren’t even speaking to each other.’  The woman with the book blew steam from her mug and took a sip while the man kept on reading the paper.

 

‘Let’s just order a couple of things and share,’ she suggested.  ‘That’s how I love to eat,’ I said, ‘I just like to share.’  Our almond milk chai’s arrived at the table and the waitress asked again if we were ready to order.  ‘Oh we haven’t even looked at the menu,’ she said.  To busy looking at each other,  I thought.  ‘Okay I’ll give you two a minute,’ the waitress smelled of a just smoked cigarette.

 

Finally we broke gaze for long enough to peruse the menu.  It was a bountiful menu filled with mouthwatering treats like deep fried rhubarb pie, chicken fried, double stuffed, marshmallow wings, three layered peanut butter, banana and miracle whip sandwiches with a side of strawberry au jus and a full bowl of noodles and sauce.  ‘Well my truest love, what looks good?,’ she asked.  I slowly looked up from the menu, ‘what do you have in mind my love?’ I asked.  ‘I’m not eating salt, or sauce, or breaded and fried things, so I don’t know.  What looks good to you?’  My stomach turned with hunger as I looked at the Hungrydillo section of the menu loaded with items that would make me fat and happy.  

I turned the menu over to the side she was looking at.  A light affair.   A chill ran through the restaurant.  A child was coughing.  I heard the clink of plates and silverware.  The stench of the waitress’s cigarette hung in my nostrils. I read on:  Cucumber 5 ways, Button Mushroom Stock Soup, a Sprouted Seedwich, Ice Cold Gazpacho.  

My brow furrowed.  ‘What’s wrong my sweetest?’ she asked, her words like apricot jelly.  I looked at her, truly looked at her, maybe for the first time.  Who is this woman?  I asked myself.  The man reading the paper was sharing an article he had read, the woman laughed.  My love sat staring at me.  The restaurant swirled as I tried to justify a life of compromise.  Slowly I arose.  Grabbed the keys and walked out the door.  

I was doing well over 75 mph in a residential area when the officer pulled me over.  ‘Do you have any idea why I pulled you over,’ she asked.  

THE SHOVEL

The Shovel

The numbers 3, 8 and 22 can lick my asshole clean.

I

Three is the number of sisters I have. All of them older. They dressed me up as a girl until I was five years old. Danae was closest to me in age, only a year older, but she still treated me like a kid. I’m 38!

 As she drove me to get smokes she confessed, “I’m addicted to yoga.”

Her kid Rory, was about to enter kindergarten and couldn’t pronounce his own name.

“Lol-lee, my name is Lol-lee.” It was painful to watch him try to form an R in his twisted mouth. “Roar- Ree,” I said slowly. “Roar-Ree.”

“Lol-lee” he repeated. Kid spent his days staring at the cat while his mom scooted off to yoga class to downward dog her way to spiritual enlightenment.

“I feel more connected with my goddess when I do my practice daily,” she continued.

“Danae, your goddess wants you to get your kid a speech therapist before he starts kindergarten or he’ll be a lamb to slaughter in public school.” She looked at me over her sunglasses hinting at a smile. Even though it was mid-January it was hot as hell.

“Michael believes Rory chose his impediment and will be stronger by overcoming it on his own,” Michael is her doughy husband. His has an atoll of long hair just above his ears, which he pulls back in a pump handle ponytail. He smokes a ton of weed, writes a conspiracy blog with half a million followers, and wears sweat pants and superhero T-shirts every day.

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” I said, staring out the window at the generic strip malls of sprawling Phoenix. Block after block of uninspired entrepreneurial spirit store fronts. Nail salons, liquor stores, check cashing places. Only the occasional taqueria with its hand-painted windows showed any sign of soul. “Does Michael still think he has a chip in his head?” Danae focused on the road, ignoring my question.

As I tamped and unwrapped the smokes, I handed her one as she said, “I’m worried about you. Are you still gambling?”

“Christ Danae, remember when you did so much blow your heart stopped and I had to jump up and down on your chest to get it to start again?”

“You’re projecting Tom,” she said. “Are you still gambling?”

“Well fuck yes I am,” I reclined the seat to get my eyes out of the sun. “And not very well, hence me sleeping on your floor. Did you know I spent the holidays at the Waldorf Estoria in New York City? I was up big, Danae. Private jet from Barcelona big.” I paused to light a cigarette. “Shit, did I tell you about Barcelona?”

“When were you in Barcelona?” She asked.

“Like two months ago. I had to swim ashore from a casino boat, buck ass naked. I lost my good suit in a hand of blackjack.” This was why the number 22 could lick my ass. “These two Saudi dudes stripped me and threw me overboard. I swam to shore, fashioned a loin cloth kind of thing from a plastic grocery bag and headed to La Rambla.”

“What do mean ‘fashioned a loin cloth from a grocery bag?’ Like a diaper?” She asked.

“Yeah, like a diaper, I stuck my legs through the bottom and synched up the waist. Then I went to La Rambla.”

“In a plastic diaper?”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, that and a tattered blue tarp that I found next to a construction site. I tied it around my neck, cape-style.”

She was looking at me again over her sunglasses with a full smile. I knew she loved these stories.

“Go on,” she said, ashing her cigarette in a lidless sippy cup with apple juice molding in the bottom.

“So yeah, I start walking up La Rambla and it’s packed with people, shoulder to shoulder. There are some buskers hustling money. I spy this skinny fag named Rory, oh weird, I mean ‘Lol-lee.’” Danae laughed up and punched me in the shoulder. “He and I were at a few parties together. He was hanging around this old coke dealer dude…”

“Like Dwayne?” She asked referring to this gross old dude that would give Danae eight-balls of coke if she’d go to parties with him.

“Yeah, like Dwayne. Rory sucked his cock though.”

“I never touched Dwayne,” she said. “Gross.”

“Whatever. Anyway Rory had obviously fell from grace because he was on the street beat boxing into a loudspeaker.”

“Was he good?”

“Yeah, really good. He could make some crazy beats.”

“So you started dancing. Right?” Danae guessed, knowing the trajectory of the majority of my stories.

“Exactly,” I said, sitting up in my seat. “I started doing my pop and lock routine.” I demonstrated arm moves.

“In a plastic diaper?” She asked.

“And a tattered blue cape.” I reminded her. “Yeah, we killed. We split 50 euros after only an hour of our routine.”

“Oh, the poor deprived citizens of Barcelona only got an hour of your dance routine.” Danae rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Rory took his earnings and scored blow. I took mine to a hardware store and bought a spray bottle, which I filled up in their bathroom with tap water, and a little pilfered glass cleaner. I also bought a 3 euro squeegee. I took my tools down to the corner of a busy intersection just off of La Rambla and started washing car windows.”

“In your Sanford and Son superhero get up?”

“Yep, it’s like dad said, ‘Never let an opportunity pass you by.’ Made 600 euros before the sunset. Bought a cheap suit got back on the casino boat and won over 10,000 euros from those Saudi bastards.”

“That’s like $15,000 US dollars?” Danae wondered.

“Something like that. I turned that in to $175,000 US over the next month. I chartered a jet, flew to New York and spent a month at the Waldorf Estoria and ordered room service every day. Best Cobb salad I’ve ever had.” Danae turned left at the light and started heading toward downtown. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“I’m taking you to the bus station.”

“What about my bags?” I asked.

“You didn’t bring any.”

“Oh yeah.”

We rode in silence. “Michael is weird and so is your kid,” I said stepping out of Danae’s car in front of the bus station. “I love you though.”

“I know they are. I love you too, Tom,” she said, reaching out for another smoke.

II

The number 8 can suck my ASS!

If someone lifted the rock off of America they’d find Greyhound busses filled with a conglomeration of repeatedly wronged single moms ignoring their sugar-amped kids rotting their brains with eyes glued to screens. Seats filled with veterans telling war stories to heal the wounds that nobody wants to acknowledge, and broke widows whose farm has long been repossessed knitting sweaters for ungrateful mid-western grandkids on meth. And me, a hot and cold gambler who was currently cold. Dammit! I forgot to ask Danae for Xanax, I thought as I made a donut out of my jacket to sit on. A twenty-three hour bus ride from Phoenix to Denver without pharmaceutical aid and flaming hemorrhoids was made only slightly more bearable by way of a dirty hippy kid named Slug who was packing some incredibly powerful weed. We smoked at every stop.

“What peyote dancing, shoeless voodoo wizard named you Slug?” I asked as we duck behind a dumpster to smoke a bowl outside of Tuba City.  

“I earned my name at the Burn,” Slug said choking on smoke. “Have you ever been to Burning Man?”

“Fuck no. I have no interest spending a week watching oppressed professionals dangle their gentiles while hula-hooping in a sand storm.”

“You wouldn’t watch, you’d participate. It’s one of the ten principles of Burning Man.”

“No I wouldn’t. I’d sit there, judge the hell out everyone, and be miserable.”

Slug looked at me for a while. “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t go. It’s not for everyone.”

When we got back on the bus, sitting in seat number 8 was my ex-girlfriend Alex.

She looked at me standing in the aisle next to Slug. Both of us reeking of pot, eyes as red as taillights. “Hi Tom. Who’s your buddy?” She asked, giving me the same half smile Danae gave me.

“I’m David Cohen,” Slug said. I looked at him and shrug my shoulders.

“Are you going to Denver?” I asked her.

“No, Albuquerque.”

“Good,” I said walking past. I was too stoned to chat. I felt so stupid. I sat in my seat next to the bus driver who just got off shift. He was eating a can of sardines in mustard sauce and slugging back Old Grand-dad. He had to weigh over 300 pounds. The seat next to Alex was open. I stayed put.  

III

The bus arrives just after midnight depositing Slug and I on to the quiet, snowy streets of downtown Denver. There is at least 6” of fresh snow covering the streets and sidewalks. My nylon jacket, thin socks, and penny loafers provided zero insulation from the biting cold. After two steps my loafers fill with powdery snow. “Well this sucks,” I say looking to Slug.  “Let’s formulate a survival plan.”

Slug is walking down the sidewalk toward a black Cadillac Escalade. “It’s my dad,” he says. As he walks away, he transforms from a slimy invertebrate into David Cohen. Opening the back door, he disappears into the warm interior.  He may have waved goodbye, I’m not sure. The windows are tinted.

When you are broke and alone in the bitter darkness of a strange city there is only one thing to do. Walk. If you are walking you aren’t loitering. If you have your eyes open, and your standards are low enough, you can always find what you need to survive on the streets and in the alleys of any city in the US.

By the time I get to the corner, I find a nappy wool balaclava under the eaves of the bus station. No cootie can survive this freezing cold so I didn’t worry as I pull on the facemask.

Tower cranes are the true bellwether for the economic growth of a city. From my downtown vantage point I count seven jutting out of the Denver skyline. The boom before the bust, I thought. Mid-western cities never quite grasp their own disposable nature. When times are good they build as though the nation depends on them and can’t believe when everyone returns to the coasts when times are lean. Denver, upon first impression, seems like it was getting all dressed up in knock off designs for a dance that will surely get cancelled. 

I walk in the direction of the state capital. Its huge golden dome radiates a halo of rainbow splinters in the cold air — the opulence of the gold in stark contrast to the emptiness of my wallet.

The snow falls in flakes as fat as the white washcloths in the Waldorf Estoria washrooms, soft terrycloth washcloths being thrown from rooftops by a demigoddess in an herbal mask. Only two blocks from the bus station and my head and shoulders are blanketed. Passing a construction site I spy another tattered blue tarp, which I tie around me more like a shawl than a cape.  I line my loafers with two grocery bags to keep the snow out.

Another inch of snow falls by the time I pass the Capital and cross on to 13th Avenue. The scent of fresh baked treats holds me fast in front of a bakery window made opaque from the steam and warmth. Inside are silhouettes of worker bee bodies pulling trays of baked goods from hot ovens. In the windows reflection I see myself in the nappy facemask and blue tarp and reluctantly move on.

                        

IV

From underneath the cloud cover a band of silver blue appears on the low eastern horizon illuminating the underbelly of the clouds pregnant with snow. The dawn brings winds that sweep the snowstorm across the high plains, turning the soft flakes to needles, which ricochet off the western wall of the Rockies, sending them back into a frenzied spiral through the deserted streets of Denver. Each flake an assault on my exposed flesh. My toes and fingers are in distress, my teeth begin to chatter. I need shelter quick.

Pushed against the wall of an alley, a mere twenty yards from the bakery, is a quarter round awning about six feet long and three feet high and wide. I remove the snow that is piling up against it. Painted on the front and sides is a wide-eyed, smiling, cartoon chicken holding a drumstick. Chester Fried Chicken. Pulling the awning away from the wall I shimmy my body and some cardboard boxes I procured to make a pallet on the asphalt underneath the awning. As I reclose the gap between the wall and the awning, I am enveloped by darkness. The wind whips and drifts snow outside as I remove my wet clothes, light a cigarette and wrap myself in the blue tarp. Moments after my last drag, I lie down and sleep the sleep of death.

So total is the darkness that there’s no difference between eyes open or shut when I awake, maybe hours or days later. It is silent. Absolute quiet, absolute darkness, absolutely alone. I stay perfectly still and enjoy deeply the situation I find myself in. Goddamit, I have to take a piss — a reality that would not be denied much longer. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie in my own filth even for continued solitude. My escape from underneath the awning is thwarted by the immense weight of the snow that accumulated since my arrival.  Try as I might, the awning would not budge.  I panic. Premature burial has always been my greatest fear. My screams are absorbed by the insulation of snow. With my feet against the wall I shove against the awning to no avail. I pound in vain on the canvas fabric of the awning. My breath becomes shallow as I imagine the recirculation of my own toxic gas and no fresh oxygen to replace it.

Pulling out my pocketknife, I make a thin slit in the awning fabric between the ribs of the structure. Crouching beneath the opening I begin to claw my way through the drifted snow. My hands turn new baby pink as I scoop away over three feet of snow. Packing the tailings into the corners of the shelter, I am quickly running out of room. Finally I breach through. A shaft of light, refracting off the tunnel of crystalline snow, shines upon me. On my knees, hands uplifted I bask in that shaft of light, deeply inhaling the crisp air from outside.

More digging as I wrestle my head and shoulders through the small slit opening and up through the canal of snow. My forehead bleeds profusely from a cut receive from the rough edge of the metal frame. By the time my head pokes through, the surrounding snow is stained red. “Yarrrrghhhh!” I yell as I tumble out of my frigid womb into a landscape so white I can see no deminsion. Mounds of fresh snow soften every angle. Cars look like ski moguls and tree branches droop and crack under the heavy blanket of snow.

A pole sticking out of a dumpster catches my eye.  In my penny loafers, lined with thin socks and grocery bags, I make my over to the dumpster and shake the snow off the pole. It’s a snow shovel. Its only dysfunction is the D-handle had broken off. Like Arthur the page-boy I pull the shovel from the dumpster and hold it forth like Arthur the King. This shovel is to be my salvation.

I begin to shovel the walk in front of the bakery and receive two cinnamon rolls and cup of coffee for my efforts. The ladies in the bakery suggest I continue shoveling the walk in front of the restaurant for which I received $15. Within an hour I had cleared the walk in front of all the shops on the block, earning over $150, and I begin to make my way to the residences near-by.

As I shovel a walk in front of a simple brick home, my mind and body at peace with the labor, I hear the sounds of children laughing. I clear a step and sit to smoke a cigarette and watch. A young family is setting about to build a snowman. The father clad in a wool pants and sweater begins the foundational ball as the mother, rosey cheeked, exhaling great plumes of breath fiddles with the children’s mittens and hats. The youngest child sucks on an icicle while the elder helps her father roll the giant ball.  The scene is joyous and pure.

I watch them play as I take slow drags of my cigarette. I remember my wife. She hates me now. I remember my wife and remember why I hate the number 2. 2 will break your heart.