Mean Horn

That old lover could play a mean horn; number three reed thrummed by the lesser and less nervous tongue, her pert breast pulled under the neck strap as she tongued and clicked notes that seemed like bagpipe vibrato in brass. That one time we played together, it was shortly after we first made love - your lip quivered and you asked me how many women I had known. The downstairs abandoned in your mothers house; the air just starting to bitter with the approach of summer. We would wander into old bookstores and smell the mold and wonder what the Victorians would think. I picked up some Kafka, reiterated in graphic novel. We ate something, somewhere - saw the capitol building at twilight and played in the castrated canons. We were loved and unafraid of it. You wouldn't say love though; and why would we. We were young, but we knew better than our parents old words. Love meant I will leave you when our children are just the right age to be burnished by it. We needed no punctuation. You smoked clove cigarettes on the porch, I looked around the side lawn. Your father was dying slowly then, faster than us though. It all happened in a few months, and we clearly forgot to be feminists when we would talk about our bodies occupying the same time and space - we forgot even the old poets when we disregarded the romantic notions - perhaps I was an jutting building and you were Roarke and the air was acidic enough to bring us toppling like a ground floor stuffed with nitroglycerin. I never believed that. I still hope that the old blueprints will be found and you can slather some cement over old bricks enough to find a place to stand. In that rubble you were delightful. Soft thumb on your altissimo register, plugging away at old numbers and sinewy melodies. Scales and arpeggios baby, that's all we were back then. You were the pitch to my modulation. You were an old New England capital and a red barn. I was dust and forget and pride and desire. You were calm and I was eloquent.

The Last Breakfast

Molly asks gently, weirdly curled up in her rolling chair with knees jutting; asks where I was so late last night. I know I owe her that - the thought of me being anywhere kills her these days - her heart crippled by vows and promises and such. Marriage is like an iron lung for trust. People gasp when you wheel that wicked thing down the streets with you; into restaurants and jewelry galleries and if Molly could pick it, the set of Newsies with falsetto's akimbo! I wince at the question; though not because of my answer - I feel wretched that she has to ask it in her faked cool voice. I owed it to her - we are doing this new 50/50 thing that seems to be working, and part of the deal is that I can't sleep around. I told her about how I am trying recover my voice, my penchant for writing, and all of the personality that goes with it. It started by making certain that every night I would purge the valves and told what needed to be told. This began the era of bridge burning necessary to start a new city over the charcoal of yesterday.

Her face is bent, slowly gnawing at her cheek, eyes distant and somewhere past the screen. He wonders if the tile bathrooms and high ceilings aren't enough, because I always write of unhappy things anyway, and wasn't I too happy now to write. In fewer words, I say yes, there is too much sugar happiness here for it to happen. Too many comfy couches and ottomans, too few packed suitcases and escape plans. Her words gurgle out now, between tears perhaps.

Her fingers twiddle, picking each other apart with rough fingernails and pinching tips. Nervous energy makes her look stupid. Sometimes the fingers, sometimes toes, last time she rocked back and forth like a toy horse or autistic. Unbearable physical strategies for someone who lost patience months ago. She has some sugared rum drink there, her breath like fermented fruit, each "H" hissed and prolonged for my misery.

I said I needed a bleak landscape to be alive in the way I was made for. I wondered if that is why I moved to this wasteland. Not really an action and adventure type, but instead perhaps a lover of change; a moving image, a stereoscopic version of this deep dark tunnel we trudge.

Molly cried a lot these days. Her head was a mire of these things. Knowing what she had on her hands - wild animals are indeed best kept outside.

Big Ruts

My biggest fear, is not being as important to someone as they are to me. As though I have made my own way on this earth long enough to set down a breadth of deep tracks that wend through the major nerve centers of a bustling city; and to show for it my constant companion is left wanting for just a bit bigger of a cargo ship to escape on, or a faster car chase, or a less careful kiss on the cheek that turns into blushing that turns into white roses overturned like tussled hair from our bicycle rides in the hills. That before I know it, before I can take my hands off my face for the big reveal, that a part of me closes in a chapter too short and too un-profound. I still eat at the same places, fall asleep in the same warm beds of moss on the forest floor, but I know unfairness is like a cherry-bomb in a sweet apple. My biggest fear is not being alone; nor the threat of silence, not the taste of defeat. I love those things like a steeped wine. My lone and simple fear is using up the big guns and they crackle just a tenth of a star spangled banner in your ears, for we have abused our rights to disagree - and we agree that stars fall so hard and hot like hell, you can't bear to keep them in that safe pocket in your tender mind.

Dailies

It keeps the brain crinkly and the pen dull... Someday you're gonna be prolific Mr. Manic - if you just keep pushing buttons.

The Muralist

She wasn't much of a painter; as far as I could tell - but she had a hobby at least. She would hop on these slick roads out of dodge and look for a wall, fence or building side with something to say. I wondered if she did that with me in a way - how she asked me careful questions at four in the morning to see what swaths my side was painted in. That is, did she find me for a story too?

I typically know people better - hell, you can hug a nun after the first date - but I can't place those dreamy eyes. I wanted to say you were beautiful when the wind blew your hair in your face and the sun crept over your myrtle. I couldn't even swipe it aside. I forget that. We just leaned against my rusty machines; you barefoot and doing a fine job at tolerating me. That isn't me you know - I wanted to tell you - I'm a different person than the one you get to see on holidays and weekends at shut-in hours. No good. I can be the guy who tells you if the butterfly name comes from Latin or Greek. I can haul off the hatched and hungry animals that eat your landscaping. I can be a fixer upper of sorts, even handy in my own right. You won't know for some time that I have thought this out in triplicate and stored every nuance of you in twenty six character English encryption.

Somehow, I love these little secrets more than anything. I love being just a shade of something to you, and it is good enough somehow. I have layers my dear, please dig! You paw at the earth like a doe. I urge you to dig. Do you want to hear about the city? Do you want a story about old lovers? I have murals to paint!

I might see you again in a day or two, it gets me excited. The nuance of it all. The burgers and the fried rice - the chandeliers and the bird shit...

Dig, please dig. I promise you will never have another lover with so much lava in his heart.

It may seem crazy, but I'm the closest thing I have to a voice of reason

If you can attack from the basement... why the hell not. Why barge in through the front door? Why repel from a helicopter? Why not plant a big ticking, hissing, cantankerous thing in the basement that reeks enough of sulfur that someone is bound to come looking. They will take so long to register the horror of it that you will be long gone, half way across the country - stealing sips of tequila from your patrons glasses when they laugh at the television. Years later, and maybe seconds later, you will wonder what became of that trap. You will never see the shock, the awe, the aftermath. They might have disarmed it with the sadistic smile they often used on you. You might grow tired of not knowing and drive for four days straight to find out what smoldering rubble is left of your old life; this just in time to find that everyone made friends with the phlegmatic monster downstairs that you capitulated and cogitated and conceptualized; that it lives in their hearts like an old aunt and when queried doesn't even remember your name. You will find the old pictures of you down from their spots on the wall because you disappeared Johny, into the hot night like a dying scream. You pissed off like countless deadbeats and grandfathers and we took this grumbling thing in as an effigy of our forgotten worth. You hate your face like you did in high school - you scrutinize your walk and the swing of your arms. Arsonists at least stick around to make sure the job is done.

Guys Night Out

I was wearing a nice little number consisting of a not-too snug black tee and a comfortable pair of dark jeans, not thinking I was all that, but confident for sure. I had a new deodorant I was giving a try, just a touch under the soft dark patches beneath my arms. My hair I kept a tussle, just a bit of gel to give a glean; a clean casual look.

McPoitiers was a wreck tonight; “guys night” is always packed anyhow – a bunch of wavy haired guys in wife beaters flaunting their stuff. They hang over the tables, showing off their manicured chests and tease glances at the women leering from the corners. I wasn't half way through the door until my ass was pinched; it was nearly menacing, grip like a vice. The women here are notoriously fierce. A couple of them jut their chins out at me over their steins and look me up and down. The exit lights flickered out between the tufts of cigar smoke that puffed from their mouths. I watched my own footfalls, head down, recalling the steps to the bar.

I would order something smart that sounded like a tropical island. It would smell like coconut incense and have only the slightest bite on the way down. I could do three or four of these before the night was through. Luckily I walked here, so I could be a little tipsy – no one would notice. I sipped softly on the straw and made my way to an empty table in the back. I never run into my friends here, but they suggested it tonight. Toni had this great shell necklace on, said it was all Kohls (don't tell!). Marc showed up, his shirt just a little too low for my taste, but I wont ruin the evening. Someone whistled at him on the way in; I couldn't see who. He was the only black guy in here, so maybe the hefty girl in the plaid. Troi had a big sweater on, and I could tell by the way he sat without expression and oh so gingerly he wasn't feeling himself.

I wouldn't say we were the biggest deal in here, but we were certainly getting some attention from the biker gals starting to come in. My dad hated my phase in college dating the bad girls. He told me that if I ever got a tattoo I could pay for my own college. One of them, Trace, had the cutest little Harley bike that held her strong back up so elegantly that I moistened slightly to the sight of her riding off from our dates. In the end, she didn't feel so strong for me – liked it better when we were friends. I tried not to call her too much, but my dorm was so boring, I just got my first D (calculus) after I met her, I cried a ton; she says I smothered her.

So Marc keeps looking behind me at this gal playing darts, a little bit of a beer belly, but clean enough. He thinks he could get her to take him home – and he is right. Girls just need an excuse. Their bodies are all hopped up on pre-pregnant hormones by the time the get out here, they seem stoic and rough, but they crave intimacy.

Carree was a bit too drunk, the way she stumbled to our table. I kinda flinched, but looked back her way when I saw her making eye contact. I went home with her last month, a big mistake, she was just so funny and kept rubbing my leg with her big hands. I just wanted to make out, but she moved so fast... I didn't want the guys to know, but they knew by her look. When she crawled off me she pretended to get a phone call, handing me my jacket on the way out, still dirty from our act. My hair was a mess, my bag still dirty from the peanut shells on the bar floor and tucked under my arm. I felt sick.

“One of you fellas wanna dance?” She leaned on the table so hard I thought she would end up in Toni's lap. He was sipping a Tab, he had to drive tonight for the guys. He wasn't drunk enough to touch her. He just got out of a relationship anyhow. He was seeing this nice rich girl upstate, but her tastes changed when he wanted to start a commitment. She said she was going to save up for a ring, but stopped returning his calls. He called me sobbing from the bathtub.

Barri, a guy we knew from around, snuck his way through the crowd and tapped Carree on the shoulder.

“This gal giving you guys trouble?”

He was half joking, but we were so relieved. Carree was just too forceful, she liked younger guys and was known to throw them away.

She skulked off into the gray smoke that made us cough.

“You can have 'em, Barri” she offered. “Bunch of stuck up guys!”

Barri had such a deep voice, and a bit of shadow above his lip like a real mustache. It kinda irked me how much he acted like the ladies. He was a total butch too – sometimes he even wore chaps although he doesn't have a motorcycle. Sometimes the gals at the bar would give him money to watch him kiss another guy, they thought it was so hot even though he didn't like the gals that way. He even won the wet t-shirt contest last year.

So Barri wanted to dance now. I thought it would be funny, but didn't feel like dancing at all. My shoes were just a little tight, they were on clearance – but they will break in.

Sometimes the gals would say these shocking things that would make me recoil. They would talk about how big their clits were – or say really personal things about the guys in the room they have “had”. One time Marge tried to take this really young guy into the bathroom with her to show him how to eat a “tuna taco”. That almost made me gag. Who would want to do that to her anyway? She was like fourty, her hair thinning just slightly at the temples. The nice watch didn't hide the fact that she wore sneakers and black dress slacks together.

There was that one gal that picked me up once, she was married but I felt scandalous. She showed me a picture of her husband when they got married, all slim and smooth; she said he isn't anymore. She says he rarely wants to have sex and is always moping around. He told her he wanted to get a job too, that she might have to pay for a sitter and cleaner during the week. She was pissed. I felt kinda bad for him, but that is why I hit the gym and keep my body tight. I don't want to be the guy at home with cellulite and a five size outgrown prom tux.

I had to make my way to the bathroom; two drinks and I will pee all night. A few gals are crowded near the restrooms keeping an eye on the all guy dart game. Guys throw so gentle, it's funny to watch their game; they are always apologizing and putting hands on each others shoulders. Marc is still talking about the photographer he met who wants him to be a model. I think it is a game, getting you to take more and more off until they can see right through you... Either way, I hate to see him get hurt – he is so naive sometimes. I stand up and make my way through, looking at my feet and remembering the way to the bathrooms.

Almost there, but I am stopped by a big gal in my way, her legs planted like oak trees on the wood floor. I look up a bit to see her arms crossed and looking amused at my little smile.

“I've seen you here before” she says with a wry grin, other gals laughing behind her.

I wonder if she knows Carree and maybe thinks I'm easy to get. Their eyes seem to burn me. I step to the side to get past, but she brings an arm out to rest on my waist.

“Why don't you come in here with me?” she offers with laughter roaring up behind here. She motions to the gals bathroom, it's heavy wooden door still shutting with a whoosh from its last occupant. I see inside the dank dirty place and my stomach pains. I feel myself blushing hot red.

“Let me by!” I say; the volume of my voice startling even me.

She laughs again, this time throwing her head back her hands going to her ample hips. She waves me by in consolation, her gesture fanning me towards the door I need. I take a couple more steps in my tight shows, my toes a little numb and cool. Her motions catch me off guard now, her larger frame pulling me forward and pushing into the gals door. She is behind me, tugging my elbow inward – I am spun around with my back to the wall. Her chest presses against mine, her breath heavy on my right ear. I can't struggle.

“Stop.” I plea weakly, embarrassed more than scared at this point. She is like a high school bully.

Behind me a hunky gal peers over her shoulder at me, winks and lifts her shirt to reveal her bare pubis and her pants on the floor. She is straddled over a urinal, two fingers parting her womanhood and fanning her water conveniently into the basin. I am horrified. The husky gal wants to show me her piece too.

“This might loosen you up a bit sweetie.” She eyes me tenderly, her hands working up my shirt. I tingle in my crotch, her fingers on my nipples and the gal behind her now coming up closer.

I hate the scent of this place; the little effigies of half naked men littered around the restroom, the general disorder of it all. It was appalling; their sex crazed spaces.

The husky gal works her other hand down to her pants and with a zip she stands there in silk shorts pulling my hand towards her. She asks me to see who has the fattest labia; to cradle their labia like two boiled eggs in my hand. The other woman presses to my left side, her bristle catching the outsides of my fingers like coarse sandpaper.

My heart pounds like a little bird, these dirty animals forcing themselves on me. I feel the hot skin of someones groin, I lash out.

A terrible crash punctuates the evening. The faux alabaster of a glistening masculine statue shatters on the floor, throwing up a fine white dust. I shake free, pushing past the pile of litter and the only surviving bit of the statue a tiny wilted porcelain penis.

I can only speak in gasps, pushing my way past my table; my friends gathering with me and out the door. I tell them in hushed embarrassed monotone about the horror endured in the gals restroom. My friends ask if they had big clits – I thought that was insensitive. Besides, it's not the size of the clitoris, it's how you abuse it.