The Living Earth

The living Earth, tugged by the sun, rolls around in space with the moon on its back. We say, “The sun rises in the East and sets in the west,” but really, the horizon just drops off. I’ve read things like, “If the Earth were flat, we’d be able to dig to China,” and it was a serious debate. The round Earth rolls over space and the sun proves it. The eclipse of the moon...it slivers and shines and climbs over the Earth like a child. It pulls the tide...it proves the Earth is round, too, but the conversation ended harshly with the inability to dig to China. The Earth is beautiful and strange. It matches color; there’s order. It’s green and red and blue. The rusty, ever betraying species has inhabited it. The ones with the elongated foreheads, the high noses and, in their stages, the ones with their swagger. The egg: Earth spins around in the cold, dead fridge: space and its yolk: the human, half-man half-monkey race orbits and burns and melts, smoking stone and breathing water. It’s a beast. I’ve seen it move (it attacked me) but I could have just been high on magic mushrooms—a delicacy you can find plenty of places. I escaped the Earth in a cave somewhere underwater—south of the cities where in each there was *godlessness* and magic under the carpets in every house. Their homes were all spell-bound. There were trees that gripped the air and the Earth, passing oxygen into the atmosphere in exchange for poison. I think they see the future and talk secretly in the wind. I watched angels dwell in them but they were all spoiled and violent. Elephants remember everything and they’re huge. Snakes are blind. The moon keeps the night and keeps a part of the day, often hiding. Stars sugar the night. The humans practice torture before God and end prayers with clasped hands. I’m going out to scar my body with ink now that the grip of the planet has missed. It’s going to be an image of the Earth’s right hand. I’ll print it on my hip.

Self Portrait (35)

I’m a demented jester and I spend too much time with the free love queen and her peasant zombie. I bend over backwards, stretch and sweat and make sure their pleasured. The king, having loved my dirty jokes, follows me around everywhere or has a bird message me from the sky with news he wishes to tell. The king is great, I know. I can go anywhere and do anything with him. I have learned to hide from the queen—or at least from time to time—because here, in the world of recreation, the king and queen compete closely. I tip my hat to the queen and bid her farewell. I wish to see the lord with his green thumb out in the garden. I fetch a few jokes to tell and run down to the poppy fields. The king’s scoring pods with his peasants and eating raw opium off of the plant. I bow and say, “hello.” He excitedly laughs at just my presence and says, “Of all the world of recreation, there’s the writer’s circle, the musician’s corner, the fashion models—all and whatever—but nothing beats my jester, me and my dope, or my free loving wife. We three will reign forever, dark jester.” “Or at least your hens and chicks will.” “Let’s smoke, then. To my hens and chicks!” They soak a few rags in opium and go upstairs to cook it. They smoke and the jester never keeps his legs still, chatting with the king and their best peasant: the zombie—a competitor they keep close at hand.

Purple, Pink and Concrete

In a bathhouse in Rome, a fair blonde woman walks in already half drunk so that she’ll blend in. Her wine goblet in her hand, her dress held up so she can walk, her hair down and kind-of curly, she sits next to three boys around her age. They ooh, aw and cat call (what a pretty lady) and ask to see her breast. One of the men pulls out his penis in a show of “bravo” dominance. This is what she came for—what everyone comes for, really—so she pulls out her breasts and shakes them and they all yell and get wild. All three men take turns using her sexually, then sit around and drink until they want to do it again. At one time, the bathhouses were the highlight of Rome. Outside of the colosseum, if you wanted to get wet, you’d grab your wine and take a dip.

Buoy On The Lake

I’m usually fishing by now, out on the pier with some bait—on the pier with a drink—casting out     and waiting. The buoy in the water bounces up and down and I know my bait’s live: it moves and “pops” and plays. I usually catch fish around this time of day, but instead of being on the lake—instead of sipping scotch whiskey early in the morning—I’m hunting with two kings and a pack of wolves are following us. I see them fight and drool, bark and yip, and I know trouble follows: I see their haunting eyes. I should’ve gone fishing, but fishing’s gotten boring.

World at War

The petals tumble to the ground and life becomes blue as I die. My nerves are shot, my spirit’s on fire, I ache and sleep all throughout each day. Awake at night, I fumble through the past and read through my thoughts. I do everything but drop blood to the ground as I waste away. I sink into my chair again. It’s early in the morning and the sun hasn’t come up. It’s time for me to go back to sleep and rest. I’ll smoke my hand-rolled cigarette and leave it burning as I pass out slowly in nods and drifts—back to dreams.

The Dope Run

“You seem angry,” he said.

“I’m pissed…!”

“I know.”

The dope’s gone; the house is spotless; every pipe’s black and empty.

“He’ll show up.”

The two live together in an apartment inside downtown Houston. It’s not small but neither of them have kids. It’s a two bedroom close to the Galleria mall and it’s comfortable. They have peyote buttons on the balcony outside of the rain: Cyndru thinks they’re cute. “We can’t eat them no matter how big they get.” Peyote takes around five years to harvest and you have to eat ten buttons to get high. “They’re endangered and they grow too slow. Let’s just order Achuma off of the internet.” She’s petite and vegetarian. “Jewls”, her roommate, likes what she cooks, is health conscious, too, but eats fish, knowing it’s brain food. The food in Houston is good and neither of them ever go out. Cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory, maybe…cheese pizza. They’re not into fake meat, either. Cyndru has a moral dilemma about eating meat. It’s not like they eat much, though. Both are crystal meth addicts. They’re both gay, too.

“Wanna play ‘Devil May Cry’ while we wait?”

“Na,” she said. “We talked an hour ago. Do you think he got pulled over?” Hebrew, their Middle Eastern friend was hanging out and left to get a quarter ounce of glass for Jewls and Cyndru. It should have took thirty to fourty-five minutes. The glass Hebrew gets is always good. Sometimes it’s colored, like yellow or pink, but it’s always see-through. For some reason he’s late.

“Let’s go swimming.”

“Fuck, Jewls, I’m worried!”

They used blue lights inside their apartment and blacked out all the windows. Everything else was casual and formal.

“Call him, then,” Jewls said and scratched his dick. He likes “little sissy boys” and has them come over and get tied up for days sometimes.

Cyndru starts dialing the number.

She laughs because she thinks it’s kinky, but Jewls just loves sex. He’s into art, too. His room has Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” picture. He says it helps him stay in the mentality that things could be worse. He works as a waiter at The Aquarium. He’s going to school for hotel and restaurant management at The University of Houston main campus. He dresses nice (Lacoste is his favorite) and when he goes out, he has fun, occasionally bringing back some sissy.

No one answered.

“I think he’s in trouble.”

“Give it thirty more minutes. Traffic might be bad.”

“Hoof…! I feel better. Hebrew’s texting me. Said he got pulled over and almost ate a quarter ounce. Lucky he didn’t, he just had a tail light out. The cop gave him a warning and let him off. A whistle was blowing in his head the whole time, he said. When he gets here, we’re smoking and relaxing. I know he’s freaked out.”

“From now on I’m bringing a whistle to parties for good luck.”

“Woah.” She laughed. “He said he’s going to be here in five minutes. I’m going to get everything out. You want some water?”

“Yea, that’s good.”

Cyndru walked to the kitchen and pulled out three cartons of coconut water. It has nutrients in it. Better than spring water. She put them on the coffee table in the living room by Jewls and left to grab a pipe and a mini torch—the whole time stressing her hands on her head and pulling her hair without noticing. 

Jewls unlocked the door for Hebrew when he showed up and he walked in and started dancing to Fatboy Slim on the radio. He was happy and he was smiling and dancing. Jewls laughed, “HaHaHaaa!” 

“Fuck the police,” Hebrew says. “Uh. Fuck the police. Uh. Uh. Fuck the police.” 

“Yay! You made it!” Cyndru screams and runs to give him a hug. “I was worried as ever. Jewls said he’s going to bring a whistle to parties for good luck.”

“Good idea….” He throws out the glass on the table next to the pipe and grabs some cold water. “Damn, this stuff’s tasty.”

They smoke all night.

They play Twisted Metal, Grand Theft Auto and Resident Evil for hours (games), dance, hang out and link up until Hebrew decides he has to make another run.

“See yah, Hebrew!” Cyndru says.

“See yah, guy,” Jewls says and Hebrew waves goodbye as he leaves the door.

The Crops

Down the corn field roads, deep in the thicket of crops, were stalks that bend in paths, like trails from animals, that led to the lake, to town, to the shed, to what look like escapes and to the flats. Kids played there and stayed for days at a time, feeding off of corn and fish, bread and water. They sometimes stole corn from the shed and traded it in town. They stayed out late in the corn fields fishing at the lake or getting high in the flats (areas where they had all stomped down the stalks and would hang out at). The common people could never find them, and when the farmer called the police, they were never shrewd enough to peel through the corn like Josh, Isaiah, Alecia, Tammy and Hank. Even the younger kids had to escape and did well. They would bring things to trade in town, call various warnings out and listen carefully to the rambles that flowed through the flats.

The teenagers were all dropouts from school and the younger kids were on the same path. They would steal wine from people’s houses, cheeses to munch on, blankets—even radios that worked on batteries. They virtually lived in the corn fields. They would buy alcohol and dope from people that came by. Josh once hitchhiked with a hippie he spotted off of the lake and, giving out good directions and helping them get there, he was giving some marijuana and blotter LSD. The older kids tripped all weekend and even the kids got high on the pot. 

One day Isaiah found a dead body floating in the water. From far away, it looked like a log and he cast out with his rod and reel, but as it moved closer, he could see hair and torn flesh. They poked and prodded the body but left it there and it rotted for days. They took out the teeth and used them to gamble (who had to fish, who had to shop, etc).

Josh was asleep in his room and snuck out at night to go to the corn fields. Isaiah was there rolling teeth in one of the flats. A few children were asleep there, probably drunk. 

“I found another body,” Isaiah said. “It was dumped in the water, too. This time it was a girl. She has nice tits.”

“What’d you do?”

“I took out her teeth like the last guy and dragged her on shore.”

“Let me go see.”

“Okay.”

They split through the corn fields and wound up at the lake where there was a blonde woman, face up with her shirt ripped open, no jeans, a bra and panties and stab wounds all over her body. 

“Gross.”

“We have like thirty teeth,” Isaiah said.

For the next few months the smell of rotting corpses filled the air around the cornfields and the children didn’t come out and play but the teenagers stayed and complained. Alecia said the woman was married to the man. She knew cause she saw it in a dream. 

“They were holding hands. I saw the man grab her by the hair and kiss her neck. They had a picnic set up on a white blanket and there were butterflies in the air,”

“You lie...” Josh said.

“I promise!”

They all laughed.

“Maybe they were married,” Hank said.

Sooner or later, the flesh fell to bones and then only the skeletons were left. No one reported the murders to the police. No one ever really said anything...Isaiah just kept the teeth. The older kids moved along, finding jobs and others hitchhiking far away, and the children took their place, smoking and drinking and having fun. One day Pulīu pulled out a butcher knife and asked in whispers if they wanted to kill somebody.

“We can just tie rocks to the body and dump it in the lake....”

“Evil...” a few replied.

The Three Witches

I had a feeling the wood would burn once we gathered the witches and the sticks. There’s three: the witch of sex, the witch of drugs and the witch of violence. Black, blonde, red. They, in their craft, have given coal to the knights of Hinglewood—the rival—the enemy. Here, one knight held the coal in his open palms and it evolved into diamonds over a small span of minutes. The heresy was caught by the eyes of a woman in the forest and when the clerics found out, sex was made illegal, drugs were turned to poison and violence...violence combusted. The witches were burned at the stake and with diamonds tucked in a sack, the knights embroidered shields with the pictures of blood—a helix. Then, they inserted a diamond in the handle of each weapon and their swords and axes were able to cut through any element. Their shields preserved their lives infinitely. It was hectic: the clerics and the mobs that the clerics controlled and who controlled the clerics were thrashed and smashed and cut to pieces.

The Witches in Pink

Along the witches came, comic book aura around their hands (pink) and dressed like feminine men. Their hair was medium-short length and blonde and their lips were tight but not pressed and they held back howls. The strange came through the water well in the hut and it poured out over the women chanting in craft. The “strange” was purple and red and made of spirit. First, a few pecans went into the well, then the blood of a young boy child. Pressed from the murder, they quickly covered the child’s body in hay and then threw some of it in the well. In order to keep the witches safe from burning, wood was thrown in and so was gold. They sat holding hands, chanting and rocking side to side together—in sync—when the strange brewed, bubbled and boiled in the water. It produced spirit that overwhelmed the room and the witches, inches above the ground, flew around the city spreading mayhem, killing all of the men, and the girls that joined with the witches were damned in the blood soaked town of Anufor.

Stone

I watch the houses, tangled up in rows as I drive down the street thinking of faces painted from corruption. They frown and fritter their teeth and look down on me from my mind’s palette. I put together something special today and they look on in grimaces. They spill in marshmallow bubbles about government, torture and sex—of tears and moans and screams. I pass up each house and look in like it’s their minds and see intimacy. In cold, stone faces they pass, looking back at me.

Water Running

 

For me, writing is like a leaf on a tree in autumn—a leaf by a creek. The creek might open into a river or even mouth into the great ocean, but as we know, it might not. Literature starts as a leaf on a tree by a creek in autumn, and the clear wind blows and rocks the leaf from its foundation and it falls. It might swirl or toss, but it might just fall lazily into the creek where it has to be and glide downstream—left, right or straight—but always gliding. It sees the life around it change and shape and stay the same. It spins, or maybe not, but it makes its way to the end in the water and stops or flows on.

Asleep in the Grass

I have a feeling that the night is going to be young and I’m sipping red wine. It chimes as we cheer and we pass around a bowl of “cherub”. It’s an organic spin-off of nyope (nī-ō-pē), an epidemic in Africa. They roll ganja, heroin and crushed HIV meds together in a joint and smoke. I like to use opium, marijuana and Bufo Alvarius venom in a bubble bong. It’s safer and it gets you high; It gets you low; It gets you left, right and upside down. On a graph, with the axis x, y and z, we would create a moldy bubble like the mushrooms kids kick around. Suddenly you’re high and the wine is hard to reach. You want to drink, the flavor and smell is inviting, but you have to burst your bubble. Sometimes you just get too high, and the orange night with the TV on and with the rag laid out, the pier lit up with mosquito tiki burners, the wine bottles half finished, just has to end early.