Bad Poetry Monday

Salt
by [REDACTED]

Life is measured out in teaspoons
Or milligrams of salt consumed
The limit is finite
And unknown
One day, long in the future
You will add a pinch.
It will be your last
How many shakers did you use?
How many salt lamps did you lick?
Each one
Pushed you closer to the ground
And you will return it
To the gods of the earth.
All debts must be repaid.

Bad Poetry Friday

Return of the Classics
by [REDACTED]

Motionless sentinels watch over the flock
And stories untold fly from every corner
Left field and right
The faces of old colonel gravity
Stare, blank as Bluebeard
At Oscar as he goes to the wedding.
And they will be there still
to watch his homegoing.

Bad Poetry Thursday

The Den
by [REDACTED]

Warmth courses through the fibers
Our fingers crawl and stroke
The air moves gently
Blown by blades
Of what might as well be grass
Hemmed in, swaddled
We lie here together
Windows open to our souls
Windows open to the world
And your breath whispers yes

Bad Poetry Wednesday

Fit and Finish
by [REDACTED]

Injection molding
Cold rolled steel
Dogwood flowers
Powder coating
Fine grained vinyl
Double stitching
Juniper berries
Laminated glazing
Shiny wire harnesses
Thermoplastics
Coursing electricity
Live fire ammunition
Sweet corn
Still on the cob
High density polyurethane foam
Mirrored lenses
Double wishbones
Vulcanized rubber
Peacock feathers
Differentials
Fractal
Atmospherics
Leather upholstery
Canadian bacon
Candlelight
Wind

Bad Poetry Tuesday

The Fen
by [REDACTED]

The dry wind blows the gutters clean
The puddles disappear
And all the world sighs
With relief and joy
The rain has come and gone
Here comes the sun.
But here under the sheltering leaves
Among the ferns and the slugs
The brackish water sits
Undisturbed and patient.
It will still be here tomorrow
And the day after.
A bog
A swamp
A fen
Building up the bottom of the world
So in ten thousand years
It will be burned.
Fire from water.

Bad Poetry Monday

Trenchant
by [REDACTED]

We look to the north
And you feel that timeworn fear
We gather our shovels
And our trowels
To begin that hard work of battle

The Enemy runs deep
The roots of evil spreading everywhere
Nasty saplings springing up
All along the run
Like fire under unremitting sun

We charge the line of foes
You stumble but keep your wits
Our knees are dirty from our falls
And yet, today we win the battle.
We rip the opposition root from limb
And throw their bodies on the pyre.

Bad Poetry Saturday

Dogwood
by [REDACTED]

Lost limbs
and o'ergrown with vines
a simple small tree still
stakes its claim

Tales of Ricky #7

This was the third trunk load of household goods that Ricky had taken to the thrift store up the road from his house in as many weeks. The amount of useless clutter that can build up in a few short years is always baffling, and for Ricky, a little nauseating. Each time he dropped off a bag of clothes, he felt a little lighter and more afraid. He never asked for a receipt. Receipts only help if you plan to file taxes.

His house here in Dublin was looking emptier by the day. Last week a group of kids from Ohio State had taken three couches and three chairs to furnish their new off-campus apartment after responding to his Craigslist ad. They paid him $400, but he probably would have let the furniture go for free if they had asked. His lease ended at the end of next month, but he needed to be gone in half that time. He needed to have a few days' head start and he needed to travel light. Other ads on Craigslist showed his bed, his dining set, his end tables and his lamps. Everything must go.

Ricky thanked the two bedraggled men that helped him unload his trunk and gave them each five dollars. He had never learned exactly when it was you were supposed to tip someone and so his default was to always tip. Money seemed to make all his transactions smoother. The men smiled at him and thanked him in return as he climbed into his aging Mercedes. He could easily afford a new one, but this car and he had been through so much together. Plus, a wagon could hold a lot of donatable stuff, and anything else he'd needed to fit over the last few years. He cleaned the carpet in the back religiously. Getting rid of evidence was a habit.

Ricky turned right out of the parking lot and headed east toward the car wash. The sun was shining now after three consecutive days of rain and drizzle. He loved the way a freshly washed car sparkled in his driveway. There was more to do at home today before dark, more store-bought art to take down off his walls. No photographs, though, of him or any of his family. He didn't have any pictures of his brother anymore, and only one or two of his mother. She left one day when he was 17 and he hadn't heard from her since. She didn't take much with her but the pictures.

Ricky scanned the upcoming intersection, always vigilant. His light was green, but the countdown clock on the pedestrian signal was nearing zero, so the amber lamp was imminent. He watched the clock and judged that we would make it. He entered the intersection just as green turned yellow. "Perfect timing," he thought as the he saw the red hand stop blinking. He looked back toward his path and had a split second to see the right flank of white Ford pickup turning left across his path before the cacophony.

It felt and sounded like a journey into an interstellar burst. Time dilated and sound overwhelmed. Ricky felt himself thrown forward and pulled backward, forces fighting to claim or save his soul. The smell of burning metal enveloped him and shards of glass like sparkling stars seemed to orbit his body. And then with a silent whoosh, the sound was gone, though the smoke of burnt metal still lingered. Gravity had come back, shooting stars crashed back to earth, and Ricky found himself still sitting in the driver's seat. He looked out through the mangled windshield and saw the wreckage of the truck, overturned and smoking, half wrapped around a light pole.

"I'm back. I'm back to save the universe," said Ricky to himself. A prayer of thanks and a promise from him to the gods.

Ricky tried the door and was amazed that it opened. He attempted to get out of what remained of his car but found himself still trapped by the seat belt. He unbuckled and exited. He stood there, half in shock, still trying to make sense of his enormous journey. His ship was destroyed. It would never fly again. He patted himself around his head, his chest. Everything seemed to be in order. Pain would come later, but nothing seemed to be acute. It looked as though an empty pillowcase was hanging from his steering wheel.

The police arrived mere minutes later. Ricky still stood beside his car.

"Sir, are you okay," the officer asked. "Is this your car?"

Ricky slowly turned his head to look Officer Priddy in the eyes and in that moment, they recognized each other.

"I'm amazed that I survived," Ricky said, still dazed. "An airbag saved my life!"

Bad Poetry Friday

Secrets of the Universe
by [REDACTED]

Why does the rain fall down without my help?
And who is this person in the mirror?
The rocks and sand get wet without my help
What does it mean for me?
Where is my role in the fate of the earth?
How do I play the part for which I'm meant?
What, then, was the purpose of my birth?
Oh, that I could see
And oh, that I could hear
And oh, that I could even pay the rent
I owe to those who own my heart and tears
But I fear I cannot even make a dent
Accounts unpayable have infinite girth
I'm sorry but I do not know what to do.
So take what I can give and pray for more.

Bad Poetry Thursday

A First Step
by [REDACTED]

Let us go then, you and I
Out past where the furthest whitecaps swell
Out beyond the reef
Let us step out onto the water
With only faith to float us
And see what we can do
Let us tempt the ocean and mock the waves
Out there beyond the final slips of land
And if we sink
We still will spite the sea
Let us go to the bottom of it all
And laugh at all the powers of the earth
Let us not be drowned
For we are the only love gods.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

The Unbearable Lightness of Fire
by [REDACTED]

Her flames lick the seasoned wood
of last year's holly tree
cut down to make more room
and tunneled under to make more light.
Her smoke floats and slips
between the branches
seeking to escape
to send signals to the world about her fate.
But still she sits trapped
caged in rings of stone
Fed, yes, always fed
but poked and prodded
pushed and shoved.
And then the feedings end.
She withers, shrinks
Until she goes quietly into that good night
Nothing left to burn against the dying of the light.

Bad Poetry Monday

Illumination
by [REDACTED]

Light lightening the woods
Natural and yet unnatural
The glowing orb is here for now
A second hanging limply from the branch
And ferns below
Are reaching up to grasp the shine
Unfurled fronds are long enough
And there beneath the surface
The worms churn

Bad Poetry Monday

Canine
by [REDACTED]

I met a dog once.
He barked at me
And I ran
Away
Leaving you in the dust
And at the mercy of the dog.

Bad Poetry Tuesday Part II

A View to a Bill
by [REDACTED]

Red bricks and melted sand
You can see them repeat and repeat
From your melted sand portal
your window on the world.
GDP pumping and oozing out the pores.
Grass growing in your throat
Wretches grabbing at your toes
And fire licking at your back.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

Haiku after Don Delillo
by [REDACTED]

Wear your hair with pride.
I love what you do for me.
Toyota Camry.

Bad Poetry Monday

Reinvention
by [REDACTED]

Then the gods said to Jason
"What about kayaks?"

Bad Poetry Thursday

The Way the Water Moves
by [REDACTED]

So many pieces come together
To make even the most minute of changes
So many changes float and drift
Aimless so it seems
Until it isn't
Until the madness bursts forth into method.
These infinite pieces are here to destroy
To tear down and then rebuild in their own ineffable image
Patience is a virtue they possess above all others
And time is what they have in abundance.
Just wait
And then look again.
Everything you knew is gone.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

Handmade
by [REDACTED]

Eleven hardened nails are embedded in the wooden frame
A filigree sits atop the rail
Careful hands have carved these shapes
And careless hands have tossed them into piles
Try to get the takt time down.
Meet the customers' demands.

Bad Poetry Monday Again

Care Line
by [REDACTED]

In an instant
In the twinkling of an eye
A blossom forms

A flower grows in cracks
Don't step on them
Don't hurt your mother
The mother of us all
The ground from which we leap
That terrible, terrible dirt that calls us
Back back back
The dirt that screams
"Come home"
We have no choice after all
But I cannot come home just yet
I have more to do
I have more to go
Miles to go before I sleep
Trials to weather and time to keep
I cannot stop here
Not now
There is so much to do.
There is so much left to do.

Bad Poetry Monday

Sorority
by [REDACTED]

The sister is a thing that has no equivalent
She is a stone
The firmament
Sprung from the same Mother
Blood on blood on blood
We sing together in tunes I couldn't place
My love before everything
The friend in all times
She sits with me
And knows.

Bad Poetry Thursday

Subliminal
by [REDACTED]

The ocean has no metaphor
No referent save the sky, perhaps
The ocean Is
It sits and sways
The basic cradle of earth, of life
It teems
Deep as the sea
Tossed upon the waves of life
Fresh off the boat
I am pulled to it
My North is the sea
Drive oceanward
Makai

Good Poetry Wednesday

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
by e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Bad Poetry Wednesday

Cairn
by [REDACTED]

One or two stones
Lying there among the rest
Have that certain shape
That specific quality of stacks
They balance
Three more on top of the one or two
No cement, no glue
Only gravity to get things done
And finally
A rough and tiny pebble sits sixth atop this pile
This precarious house of cards.

An autumn breeze
Tumbling down the hills and through the valleys
Is enough to ruin equilibrium
And topple the rocks
Meteors plummeting back again to earth
To be ground to grains of sand
By time and water
Those principalities and powers to whom all debts must be paid.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

A Green Wave
by [REDACTED]

It starts way out
Past where the eye can see
And it arrives in whispers
One tree, one branch at a time
The fronds reach heliocentric
The earth strains outward from its core
New birth arises from old death
Each year a phoenix.

Bad Poetry Thursday

The Remembrance of Things Past
by [REDACTED] 

Tragedy never strikes once
It repeats and repeats
Once
Twice
A week
A month
A year
Two years
Ten years
It has tenure in your heart
It keeps coming back until
Doddering and old, dulled by time
In a puff of smoke,
In an unceremonious way
It disappears
A last comfort as you drift away.

Bad Poetry Friday

Carlsbad Caverns
by [REDACTED]

Around back, by the barren lands
A pair of star-crossed caverns take a bow
It looks as though they hold each other's hands
Upon their turgid covers walks a cow
Carlsbad and Carlsworse they're called
A tour of one serves as a tour of both.
I visited both and now I am appalled.
"I can't believe you've done this," I quoth
To myself and the folks that I was with
What money have I wasted was my thought.
I should have watched Revenge of the Sith
Rather than go here. Lesson learned. Lesson taught.

Bad Poetry Thursday

A Creed You Can Truly Believe
by [REDACTED]

It begins at home
In the comfort of your own bed
By the light of the hallway sconce that shines through your door.
The monsters have no power here.
Darkness cannot penetrate the light.
And then later
In the comfort of your own house
While the blue glow soaks into your eyes
While your mother and your father shout at each other
At no one
At GOD herself.
Only melodies and sound effects can reach your ears
Through your active noise cancelling headphones
And even later
In the comfort of your own family
The children sleep soundly in beds of their own
You sit alone at the dining room table
In a chair you bought on credit last year
And you know that you are safe.
And now it is sunset
As you walk together down the path
And hear the call of the lonesome train
This is where the secret lies
This is the root of the root and the bud of the bud.
The darkness always penetrates the light
But still the monsters have no power here.

Tales of Ricky #6

Ricky pulled into his driveway and parked his truck under the carport. It rained so infrequently here in California that the carport was mainly used to keep the sun off and the temperature down during the day. It was dark now after a late dinner at Carson's Roadhouse, and it would still be dark when he left for work the next morning.

He shut the truck's driver side door and walked slowly along the stone-paved walkway toward his front door. Usually, he went in the side door, but he hadn't grabbed his mail in three or four days and so went to the front. The mailbox was nearly empty still. It only held a few adds for lawn care services, or dentists, or roofers all looking to get a bit of business from someone new in town. It had been almost a year, but in a community like this, five years might still be "new." Ricky held the junk mail in his left hand and pulled open the screen door with his right. It creaked as he opened it. "That'll need replacing before too long, too," he thought with an audible sigh. And then he stopped dead, his right hand now on the doorknob of his red front door.

There was a note attached to his front door. It sat between the two panes of frosted glass just above eye level held on by a single piece of transparent tape. It read "HI RICKY!" He stared at it, transfixed. His mind whirred but no distinct thoughts reached consciousness. Fighting his intuition, he grabbed the note from the door and entered his house. He never locked the doors. He'd never needed to.

He set the mail and the note down on the little entryway table he'd found at a yard sale a few months ago. When he turned on the living room light, he saw that the furniture had barely been moved from where it was, but it had been moved. The couch was an inch or two too far away from the wall, the coffee table was slightly askew. Someone had been in here.

His first thought was that it was some nut with a shotgun that knocked on his door. "And if I were at home, they'd find me there," he said aloud. House unlocked, they could just walk right in, bang bang bang. But that made no sense. Those kinds of random crimes didn't happen here on the Santa Barbara coast. Ever. And it wasn't a robbery as far as Ricky could tell. Nothing of value appeared to be missing.

Then he remembered the note, and the truth hit him in the gut like a prizefighters right hook. The note had called him "RICKY," but all the mail he received was addressed to Carl P. Shillins. No one here knew him as Ricky. His neighbors, his boss, his few new acquaintances, they all called him Carl. The only people who knew him as Ricky were far, far away, he hoped. Or gone, too many of them gone.

"Oh my god," he said. "They found me. I don't know how, but they found me."

Bad Poetry Wednesday

Puck
by [REDACTED]

A flashing of teeth and fur
Terminal velocity
A froth
And now a sleep
Awakened by the step
Of that one
The one that leaves
Sometimes
But then comes back.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

The Regiment
by [REDACTED]

A million feet, more or less
Stomp through the grass.
A thousand millipedes, more or less
move in formation.
The ants cower before the regiment
And the gnats flee.
The rain falls on the good an evil alike
Water does not judge
Tomorrow the war begins again
A battle of life and death
Beneath a cloudless sky.

Bad Poetry Friday

Anniversary
by [REDACTED]

A year comes and goes
And a decade
Mark the day to remember what we have lost
And what we have found
And re-found
Was it us?
Was it we?
A thousand years can come and go
And what will change between us?
Only the color of our hair
And the creases in our skin.
The death that makes our lives complete
Can only stop our beating hearts
But not the throbbing pain of love

More Bad Poetry Thursday

Miniature America
by [REDACTED]

Outside there are a thousand tiny lights
Each one as bright as the last.
One thousand blue glowing screens
And one thousand cats.
The world revolves around one hundred men
Here they are.
One thousand other men in cars
Going faster, much faster than ever before
To find that empty place
The place where they can stake a claim to what is only justly theirs.
Where do they go from here?

Tales of Ricky #5

Ricky dragged his feet a little as he walked to the bus stop. It was only the fourth day of school but he was already exhausted. The bus stop felt like it was a million miles away. There were three other children that got on the bus with him, all from his new neighborhood. He didn't know them, and they didn't seem to want to know him. Erika was even in his class, but it's hard coming in as a new 5th grader. Friendships and groups are established and it's hard to break in. Same as 4th grade, same as 3rd grade, same as 2nd grade, thought Ricky. Four schools in five years is tough.

From behind him, Ricky heard the low rumble of the bus's diesel engine as it rounded the corner of Fern road and Anthem street. He was still about fifty yards from the bus stop, so he started to jog. He didn't want to miss the bus in the first week. He would have to show up late to school and walk in to his class with everyone looking at him. Being the new kid was hard enough. Seven steps into his jog, Ricky's backpack zipper broke. It was a hand-me-down backpack from his older brother Steven. The zipper failure sent his binder, his lunch, his library book spilling onto the sidewalk.

"You're going to miss the bus. You're going to miss the bus," played over and over in his head, an incessant drum beat of failure.

A girl roughly Ricky's age ran down from the bus stop at the corner to help him. She knelt down next to him and started picking up loose sheets of paper before they could blow away.

"I'm fine," said Ricky. "I don't need help and you're going to miss the bus." He looked up at her next to his right knee.

"No, it's fine," she said. "That's the middle school bus, not ours." She grabbed the last of the papers, a form that Ricky's mom had forgotten to sign last night before her sixth glass of wine, that she had promised to sign this morning before she had to run off to her job at Shepard's. He took the papers from her and stood up just as the bus pulled up to the stop 100 feet away. Sure enough, the older group of kids waiting there at the corner got on. The doors shut, the bus pulled away and Ricky stood there next to the girl, a confusing jumble of emotions rolling around in his body.

"Thanks," he said. "You really didn't have to help. I'm fine."

"Yeah, I know. I like helping people. You're new, right? Aren't you in Ms. Garming's class? I'm in Ms. Yellen's class but my best friend Ana is in your class I think."

"Uh, yeah, I am in Ms. Garming's class" said Ricky. He didn't remember an Ana. He only remembered two names from the first few days, Dorian J. and Dorian M., because it was so strange to him to have two Dorians in the same class.

"I'm Marianne," she said with a smile. "Nice to meet you, and welcome to the neighborhood. Didn't your family just move in a couple weeks ago?"

"Yeah, we did. Me and my mom and my brother Steven. He's in high school. My name is Ricky, by the way."

"Oh, I think I hear our bus coming! We better get to the stop," said Marianne. The two of them walked briskly up the block and made it to the bus stop with five seconds to spare. Marianne spotted three of her friends near the back of the bus and she ran to sit with them. One of them looked like a girl in Ricky's class. Maybe it was Ana, he thought.

Ricky took a seat on the left hand side of the bus, about halfway back. There was only one more stop before their arrival at Strasburg Elementary School, so the odds that someone would sit by him were pretty low. He was relieved.

Several minutes later, the bus lumbered to a stop in front of the school and the children started to exit. Ricky headed towards the front door of the school alone, walking slowly. There was no rush to get inside yet. Class didn't start for 10 more minutes. He shuffled down the hallway to the fifth grade rooms. To get to Ms. Garming's class he had to walk all the way to the end and take a left. As he turned that final left, he heard Marianne's voice behind him.

"See you after school, Ricky," she said. It was the nicest thing anyone at Strasburg had said to him yet. He turned to look at her and reply, but she had already turned right to head to her class room.

"Yeah, see you after school, too," Ricky said, trailing off, not sure if she'd heard him or not. He stood for a minute just to see Marianne walk away. So many people have come and gone, thought Ricky. I hope she stays.

Bad Poetry Thursday

Two All-beef Patties
by [REDACTED]

Hunger is crude
It runs the world like a petty dictator
Always onto the next thing
Now now now now what
There is time enough for this
And time enough to eat
Let me have your special sauce
Another mouth to feed
My stomach is gnawing
My guts are churning
Give me what I need
Give me my daily bread.
Forgive me, but I am hungry
I want to devour the world.

Bat Poetry Wednesday

Flitter
by [REDACTED]

Into the dark, flying
The black, like VantaBlack is thick
And unyielding

A tiny echo, a ricochet
Off of one thing, and then another
Replying

He stumbles in the night
Left alone, the light receded into ember
A fire gone out.

The faint thrum of wings
He is not alone here, there are others
Surrounding

He stumbles in the black
Eyes cannot see the Other, the foreigner
Now encroaching.

The slap and crash
One sound falls into another
A thousand voices speaking.

He stumbles in the dark
And wings he didn't know he had
Hold him up, keep him aloft,
Flying.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

Paranoia
by [REDACTED]

The fear comes on monstrous bear feet
It is a roiling beast
With no roar
It sits outside your door
And waits
And with such waiting grows and grows
And prepares to eat.

I know it sits
I know that it's me it's looking for
Garmonbozia
I try to swallow it back
I try not to think twice

Bad Poetry Monday

Alienation's for the Rich
by [REDACTED]

It only takes a spark
To burn a pile of hundos
You have to be wealthy to understand
To know what it's like to have more
To know what it's worth to want less
No one cares about more than your money
Not even you
There's no loathing like self-loathing
For the rest of us
For us huddled masses yearning to be drunk
There's no time to feel ennui
We don't have energy to do it
To burn all the money we don't have.
There's no righteousness like self-righteousness.

Bad Poetry Saturday

The Bear
by [REDACTED]

Spread your arms
Squat low and widen your stance
Stare with vacant eyes
Say in sotto voce
"Get away from me bear"
Make the bear flee
Make the bear wish it had never been born
This is how to do it
This is how to win
Nova Scotia knows
We know

Bad Poetry Monday

The Crash
by [REDACTED]

The sound it makes when a car hits a wall
or a pole, or better yet another car
is deafening and normal
The sound of rending plastic
and bending metal
cannot be confused for anything natural
or anything else man made
It's its own
and beautiful in its own way.
Like the light from a fire
it consumes.

Bad Poetry Friday

Clarity
by [REDACTED]

Simple combination locks
and heavy leaden chains
Can protect a bicycle or even car
But not my heart

Bad Poetry Thursday

Indefatigable
by [REDACTED]

Little tiny slivers of pine
Slide freely into these hands of mine
They fester and swell
I do not feel fine
But who can I tell?
To whom can I confess I am not well?
Swollen flesh is just a sign
Of fingers under an infection's spell.
The wood is now a part of me
Use a knife to cut it out
Call it sliverectomy
I try not to shout
At the searing pain.
Why won't you just give up?

Tales of Ricky #4

Ricky pulled into a parking spot in the lot behind the Hollywood Casino in Columbus, Ohio. He'd been driving around the state all day and was relieved to arrive at his last stop. He had one more delivery to make.

The sodium arc lights gave the parking lot an eerie glow. Depending on how his day had gone, the glow either filled him with foreboding or made him feel wrapped in velvet, smiling at everyone, it was never neutral. Today had been a good day. He opened the trunk and grabbed the black leather duffel bag he'd picked up in Dayton just an hour or two ago. He never asked what was in these bags. It was better not to know, he figured.

Ricky walked up to the employees' entrance on the west side of the building and knocked. Regular employees had a security badge they could use to enter, but he had to wait for Rhonda. She knew he was coming, and so she answered the door immediately and shuffled him into her office three doors down the hallway on the left. It always felt slightly sinister entering a casino this way. There were no flashing lights or clanging slot machines, just fluorescent track lighting and drab walls. Like being in the underbelly of a creature plotting evil. All business.

Rhonda reached out to shake Ricky's hand as he sat opposite her in front of her desk. She had a firm handshake, firmer than you'd expect from such small hands. She couldn't have been more than 5' 1" but her aura was large and dark purple, almost black. Today she had a gleam of gold. Sitting down herself, she smiled at him and he returned it with a lopsided grin.

"Good to see you," Rhonda said. "Looks like you have something for me?"

"Same as usual. Jonesy in Dayton said to tell you that it's exactly as he promised, whatever that means."

Rhonda chuckled under her breath and said "Oh, I'm sure he did. He's a good boy."

Ricky handed the leather bag across the desk. He sat for a moment while Rhonda picked it up and looked briefly inside. She seemed satisfied, so Ricky stood to leave. "Leaving so soon," Rhonda asked.

Ricky gave her that crooked grin again and said, "I think my work here is done."

"Wait, I have something for you," Rhonda said. "Not another delivery or anything, I know you're off the clock now. It's just something I thought could give you a feeling of peace at the end of the day." She reached into her lower right hand desk drawer. Ricky tensed up. No one had ever pulled a gun on him, but it was the first thought that jumped to his mind. It wasn't a gun she came up with, though. It was simply a ziploc bag full of casino chips. "Just my way of saying thanks," she said.

Ricky took the bag. It was heavy and the chips weren't all 1's and 5's. Probably north of a thousand dollars in here, he thought. He gave Rhonda a nod and turned for the door. "Until next time," he said.

"Don't spend it all in one place," she said to the closing door as he walked out.

Ricky sat down in the driver's seat of his 2010 Avalon and looked at the bag again. He would cash in the chips tomorrow, or maybe the next day. He smiled to himself and pictured the plastic turned to green paper. The sodium arc lights fell on his face and he felt like it was a coronation. It's good to be king, whatever it pays, he thought as pulled back onto the freeway heading north, heading home.

Good Poetry Wednesday

The New Colossus
by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Bad Poetry Wednesday

The Ancient Myths
By [REDACTED]

Saturn ate his own children
But was supplanted all the same
A new king reigns for us

Romulus and Remus built the City
But not in a day
A new house was built by you and I

Circe worked with herbs and potions
Turned men to pigs and nymphs to monsters
But we are our own moly

Echo and Narcissus could only love the one
Sounds and faces his alone
We are two

Gaia is the mother of us all
Bringing forth the sea, the sky, the Gods
And we have done the same
The creation of us
The birth of our existence
We made this from nothing
From the random chance of fate.
We are.

Tales of Ricky #3

Ricky sat on his flagstone patio drinking coffee. The stones were old, but like all stones they had aged well. The coffee was still hot in his double-wall, vacuum flask coffee mug. He had been outside now for over an hour, alternately scrolling through apps on his phone and looking around the yard imagining the work that needed to be done to bring it up to par.

Ricky had worked on that damn yard most weekends for the last six months, nearly as long as he'd owned the house. Some of it was acceptable, but much of the property still looked sloppy and unkempt. Mostly because it was sloppy and unkempt and had been that way for who knows how many years.

There was one section, though, that he was quite proud of. It was a shade garden filled with 31 ferns that Ricky had purchased at the local nursery and transplanted to fresh soil under the outstretched limbs of a larger mulberry tree and an even larger tulip poplar. Three months ago, that part of his property had been covered with English ivy, blackberry, and Asiatic bittersweet vine, the most evil of them all. A lot of work went into clearing all of it out. His shoulders and back were sore for weeks from the constant digging, pulling, yanking, and cajoling. Mixed in with the ferns were a few foxgloves, now in bloom for added color.

It seemed that nearly anything would grow here in California as long as you did a little research. In a lot of ways, California was a paradise to live in or see. Much more so than Central Ohio where Ricky had lived until recently, until his career change and cross country trip. He was anonymous here, which was exactly how he wanted it. No more beat up old brown briefcase in the trunk all the time, just in case he needed to make it across the border. Out here in the California desert, he could remember his name, who had once been, long ago. It felt good to be out of the rain.

Bad Poetry Tuesday

I Was Gasping for Contact
by [REDACTED]

The orange core alone
Can't stem the tide
The dark blue lonesomeness outside
Washes in.
Where is my beautiful house?
The house that we built
Together, long ago
Before the flood?
Where are you, my love?
You are water flowing underground.
Lost to me, but you are not lost.
I let the water hold me down
I was gasping for contact.

But now
Maybe
Now I can breathe again
Start to imagine I can breathe again
I don't want the tide to recede
But I want to breathe again
The air is sour and empty
But it is air
Not water
This is still our beautiful house.
I am gasping for contact.

Tales of Ricky #2

It was the loveliest party that Ricky had ever attended. The decorations were understated and elegant, without being cloying. He'd never thrown a party like this but he could tell that this wasn't easy to pull off. He had been to many parties and been drunk at many parties and made a mess at many parties, but he didn't feel the urge to get crazy tonight. Maybe it was old age, or maybe it really did have something to do with the decor, the ambiance.

An hour later, Ricky stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom, 5th glass of a 2014 Willamette Valley Pinot Noir in hand. It was classy to be drunk on good wine, he told himself. Everything's fine. As he pivoted on his right heel to enter the bathroom, he wobbled backwards and bumped into the framed Ellsworth Kelly print on the wall opposite the door. The print fell to the floor with a thunderous clatter of splintering wood. Ricky froze with widening eyes before slowly turning around to survey the damage. He squatted down next to the fallen picture and saw that the glass in the frame was intact, but the bottom left corner of the frame itself was broken in two. His host and good friend Elizabeth rounded the corner from the kitchen into the hallway to see what caused all the noise. She saw Ricky hunched over the picture and walked the few steps up to him to help.

"I'm so sorry," Ricky said, standing up to face her. "I accidentally bumped it with my shoulder on my way to the bathroom. And I spilled my wine all over your floor," he said, just now noticing his glass was empty and a dark red splotch was spreading across the hardwoods.

"Oh don't worry about it," responded Elizabeth with a smile. "If the frame is truly broken, I'm sure it could be mended. Go grab a towel from the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom to clean up the wine and I'll put this picture away so it doesn't get damaged any more. Use a dark towel if there's one there so the wine doesn't show up as much."

Sheepishly, Ricky did as he was told. The wine cleaned up easily from the gleaming floors and he tossed the dirty towel into a hamper he found in the laundry room next door to the bathroom.

The house had filled up, and the wine was flowing freely when Ricky walked up to an acquaintance of his, Andy, to chat. Andy was there with another man that Ricky didn't recognize.

"Andy, man, what's up? It's been a while since I saw you! How've you been?" said Ricky.

"Hey! Ricky, good to see you dude. I'm good, not much new, still just working and stuff," replied Andy. "Oh, hey, this is my friend Matt. He just moved to town a couple months ago. We went to school together."

"Matt, nice to meet you," said Ricky, shaking Matt's hand. "Welcome to The City."

"Thanks," Matt said. "Nice to meet you, too. So far The City is good for the most part. I moved here from a much smaller town, so the traffic is really something new for me. Everybody seems so aggressive."

"Yeah, I hear you," said Ricky. "That's why I prefer to ride the subway. I can't stand sitting in traffic, even if it ends up being a little bit faster."

"Ha, yeah, no doubt. I'm not a huge fan of the subway yet. The first time I rode it to work, I saw this couple that looked like Jihadi Jamal and Jihadi Jane get on and I was like 'oh hell no, I'm not getting my ass blown up right after moving here.' So I got off at the next stop and took an Uber the rest of the way."

Ricky stared at Matt, blinking rapidly. He had to consciously keep his mouth from falling agape. "So anyway, what have you been up to recently?" asked Andy.

"I'm sorry," Ricky said to Andy, deliberately not looking at Matt. "I feel like a hypocrite talking to you and your racist friend as though everything's cool." Without a further word, Ricky turned and walked into the kitchen to grab another deviled egg and find someone else to talk to.

Elizabeth saw him and poured him another glass of wine. "I do hope you're having fun tonight," she said. "Who is that with Andy? I didn't get a chance to meet him yet."

"I think his name is Matt. I wouldn't bother with him if I were you," said Ricky. Elizabeth gave him a questioning look, but said nothing. "He kind of seems like a racist asshole," Ricky clarified.

"Ah," said Elizabeth. "I see."

Bad Poetry Monday

The Rooftop Garden
by [REDACTED]

She sits on red brick alone
Sun and shade her only company
The blossoms track the movement of the sun
and thus she marks the hours, the days
as they pass, one on top of another
until
the final pepper is picked
the last of the marjoram withers
and returns to dust
But the red brick remains
It never changes and it never dies
It sits in silence and waits
It's there again when she greets the equinox anew
She rises from the dirt to bear new life
Again

Bad Poetry Sunday

A wonder of Glacier
By [Redacted]

Swells and slumps
Rolling ridges of ice and floes
A blur of whispers
Coax us gently toward the future
Of deserts

Bad Poetry Saturday

India Ink
By [REDACTED]

At night the lights stay on
This block of ours is alive
And well

Through it all
In back of all of this
A man sits and writes
In black and white
He etches words in stone
The history of our little world of friends
This land of graying hair

Bad Poetry Friday

Nematode
by [REDACTED]

Fire, sun
Rosy swine run through windy breaks
The sunfire gleams on winded cheeks
They root with tricky noses
finding treasure in the peaty deeps

And all the while
While we sit and watch
While we watch and tremble in anticipation
The nematode burrows
Into abundant flesh
and waits without breath
For a cell in which to encyst
To bring the world to its knees

Tales of Ricky (#1)

Ricky wandered the Farmers' Market looking for ripe and sweet onions. From what he could see, 8 out of the 10 produce stands advertised Walla Walla sweets. Each one claimed to be sweeter than the last. And so he bought one onion from every farm.

He carried his eight individual bags of onion, his loaf of artisan bread, and a wedge of rosemary chevre from the market's only cheesemonger to an empty table in the beer garden. He ordered a Twin Twin Forks Brewing Hopalope IPA made with Galaxy and Mosaic hops, tipped the bar tender a dollar and walked back to his table. His food was undisturbed. He knocked back half his beer in one long sustained gulp and then started carefully cutting onions, one grower at a time. He would eat a single slice of an onion, cleanse his pallet with bread, cheese, and beer, make notes on the taste and smell of the onion in his notebook, and then move on to the next onion.

He tried them all and found none to his satisfaction. None were sweet enough, none were balanced enough. He packed up his leftover bread and cheese, slugged down the warm remains of his beer, and headed to his car. His trunk was full of flash drives, passports and international money orders. He drove directly toward the freeway on ramp and headed southwest towards Las Vegas. He wouldn't be back. Not to this Farmers' Market anyway. There was another highly-rated one a couple towns away, right on the Idaho border. He would stop there if he had time.

Bad Poetry Thursday

Highway
by [REDACTED]

Asphalt cracks patched with hot tar
stretch ahead for miles
Exit 178 flies by and we can't stop
not now
now that we're almost there
almost to Canada.

Philosophy and Phylogeny

In my somethety-something years on this planet, I've read exactly zero books of philosophy. Somehow that seems both odd and correctable. Or as Wittgenstein would say...well, I don't know what Wittgenstein would say and that's the point. I bet he would say something about truth tables if we're talking young, calculating, I-see-the-world-with-more-clarity-than-anyone-else Wittgenstein or maybe something about how my use of "philosophy books" determines the meaning of philosophy as that which I haven't read and precludes every book I HAVE read from being considered philosophy, if we're talking to older, more world-weary and world-wise Wittgenstein.




And so that preceding paragraph is an example of how I've gone through most of my life. I recognize my lack of philosophical erudition and can compensate for it with soundbites and off-hand examples that hint that I DO know what the hell I'm talking about. As long as my conversation partner doesn't know any more than I do, or at least isn't confident that they do, I win! The key is to make sure you gauge, before you bust out with some jargon that may or may not be correct, the other person's knowledge. The last thing you want is to have someone correct you. You want to leave other people with the impression that you sure know what you're talking about, throwing Sartre and Kant into random conversations in applicable ways. Oh, I forgot, that's the other key. Just memorize a few exemplars of Kantian or Cartesian thinking and wait for a time in the conversation where you can say "well, as Kant would probably say..." That way you don't have to really worry about it derailing into a true discussion of philosophy while still getting across the point that you know a lot about Kant even when you don't.

Now, don't go thinking that this is easy. It takes a lot of work trying to predict where conversations are going to go before you actually get in the same room as the people you are going to be conversing with. Organized gatherings (church, book clubs, business functions) make it a lot easier, but know that there's a good chance you won't be able to use your pithy little insight if the right topic doesn't come up. The absolute last thing you want to do is use it in an inappropriate place and look like a fool.

So, I don't know how we got here but anyway, what I wanted to say when I started out was that I think I'll get around to reading some major works of philosophy this year. I've had Being and Nothingness on my shelf for more than two years now, so I guess I should finally read it. Of course, if I can pull it off right, I can get you to THINK I read it even when I didn't.

Arbitrary Day Combeth

So, as you probably know, I participated in the Reddit Secret Santa gift exchange this past Christmas season. It was fun. I got some "cheese" and "sausage" and gave a woman in San Francisco a rainbow-colored, It Gets Better-supporting collapsible hoop dancing hoop. Good times were had by all. It is the biggest Secret Santa gift exchange in the universe (unless, of course, the universe is actually infinite. In that case there exists at least 1 planet with a secret Santa gift exchange that is bigger) assuming that there are even any other planets that have a Santa. Well, even if there aren't any other planets with Christmas and Santa, it would still be the biggest by default.

Anyway, I also plan to join in the fun this Arbitrary Day. So, to my Arbitrary Day Giftee (who has basically zero chance of ever seeing this blog, let alone this specific post): I promise that your gift will include at least one (1) comb of some kind and at least one fictional story about something that will not be less than 4,000 words and will include the selective use of not fewer than 10 fonts (to include Papyrus, Comic Sans and Verdana). I mean, your gift will also include something else, too, probably, unless the comb is MADE OUT OF GOLD!

Much Ado About Sauce

So, the other day I was making some sauce for a home-made secret santa gift exchange. The sauce is incredibly good and made from the best stuff on earth. That's right, the sauce is Snapple. Anyway, to go along with the sauce (which is not actually Snapple, just to be clear) I decided, what the heck, I'll write the best story in the world to go along with it. Turns out that is harder than it sounds. I did write a story, but it's only the third best in the world. Sorry. But here it is anyway. The only printed manuscript in existence is owned by Dee Doan. The true manuscript makes selective use of Papyrus. Any manuscript that doesn't use Papyrus in the right places is an obvious forgery and should be burned on sight.

Two more notes: I wrote this in one morning (an amazing way to use a sunday morning, you should try it some time) so any typos are totally intentional since this went through a very rigorous editing process of printing it. Also, yes, I did at one time read a book by DFW, how did you know? Also when I said "two more notes" I actually meant "three more notes." So, third, I have no idea what happened to O. G. Readmore (this will make sense (well, more sense anyway) if you read another couple hundred words). He just never shows back up in the story. Weird how these things happen.

The Legend of the Sauce was WAY Hardcore

Archie’s quest began on an overcast Thursday in November. I think it was the 21st or something, but I can’t guarantee that. Anyway, his epic quest started when a creepy old many walked by him on the street and right behind that creepy old man, who was actually former President George H. W. Bush after an all night bender with Barbara*, was a guy holding a sign that said “Epic Questers Wanted: Apply Here.” So Archie stopped. He’d always dreamed of going on an epic quest, at least ever since he read the book A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn (R.I.P.).

Archibald R. Hammerstein walked up to the man with the sign, whose name was O. G. Readmore, and asked, “so, epic quest, eh? Tell me more.” O. G. replied “Arrrr, ye have to fill out this contract that says you are responsible for anything untoward that happens to ye on this here epic quest. Just sign here, here, initial here, put yar bank account info here, and finally give me yar contact info for yer next o’ kin.” Archie, being the trusting and, let’s be honest, gullible guy that he was, filled out the whole thing without a second thought.

“All right, here’s your quest, Archie,” said O. G. in a strangely normal voice*2. “You gotta find all the stuff on this list in its purest and most essential form. Then, you take them all, mix them together in unknown proportions to make a delicious, sweet and fiery sauce. This is the sauce of destiny and though its ingredients have been known for millennia, no one has successfully combined them in the right proportions. This is your quest, if you choose to accept it (which you already did when you initialed that thing just now). You have three weeks….no wait, it’s the 18th today*3 so you have four-and-a-half weeks before I need the sauce for…..well, for a thing. So be off.”

Archie looked at the list. As O. G. had said, it was a list of ingredients. The list looked like this:

Only use the purest essence of these ingredients. Anything less than the best will lead to YOUR DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

1) Honey
2) Ground Cayenne Pepper
3) Light Brown Sugar
4) Garlic Powder
5) Red Pepper Sauce (Tabasco or similar)
6) Dried Thyme
7) Salt
8) White Wine Pure Vinegar
9) Hickory Smoked Ham

Archie checked his list. He checked it twice. “So, I guess the hickory smoked ham isn’t…a…part….” He trailed off. O. G. Readmore was gone. He was nowhere to be seen. The fresh snow on the ground where O. G. had been standing remained untouched. It was as though he never existed. Archie looked down at the list in his hand, half expecting it to now be diamonds*4. But it wasn’t. Something strange was going on here.

In an odd coincidence, the Harris Teeter just a few blocks away had seven of the eight ingredients in their purest form. Archie started walking toward the Whole Foods at Clarendon. In another strange coincidence, he changed his mind half-a-block later. The reason he changed his mind is because he started walking east and saw the crazy old man (George H. W. Bush, remember) coming back toward him. “Ah, crap,” said Archie to himself under his breath. “That guy freaks me out. I’ll just go to Harris Teeter.” So he went to Harris Teeter. The whole way there (about 5 blocks) he sang to himself, over and over “My Harris Teeeeeeeter!”

As Archie entered through the automatic doors, he glanced at his list again. Obviously, the first stop would be the spice aisle (later, he would end up on the legendary Spice Isle, but not yet). He walked slowly down the lane looking at spice labels. He picked up a big jug of garlic powder because in his opinion, it was almost impossible to have too much garlic in just about any sauce*5. In this day full of coincidences, the jug of garlic powder he chose happened to be made from 19 heads of garlic from the very best garlic plant ever grown. Well, each head of garlic was grown from the very best seeds ever grown. Only one jug of garlic powder in all the world would be sufficient for the incredible sauce (which we haven’t named yet. It’s officially known as El Salsa de Arbol de Santo Domingo de la Ultra-Bicicletta, or ESASDUB for short), and this was it.

The dried thyme was easy to find. It’s a little-known fact, but there is absolutely no difference at all between all the thyme plants on earth. In fact, each one is a genetic twin of all the others*6. Thus, it didn’t really matter at all which little canister of thyme leaves Archie chose. The particular one that he grabbed was McCormick brand and was harvested and dried on the high arid steppe of the inland Pacific Northwest, just several miles from Kate Maisel’s hometown of Ephrata, Washington. Archie assumed, correctly*7, that one little canister would be enough.

Next, Archie moved down the aisle to the salt section. The wide selection was at first overwhelming. Iodized, non-iodized, sea, Mediterranean sea, ground, coarse, blue, so many salts! Naively, Archie assumed that the more expensive the salt was, the better it was. It may have been naïve, but it was true. The most expensive salt is truly the best salt. Basing his decision on price alone was what saved Archie in re the salt. Oddly, 5 minutes later in the honey aisle*8, the exact same reasoning produced the exact same result. The most expensive honey was indeed the best. It had been harvested the day before from a hive ruled by The Virgin Queen of Virginia Bees. Blind Franciscan nuns ran the apiary and the honey in the particular jar that Archie grabbed had been painstakingly dripped off the honeycomb by a beautiful nun named (as all nuns are) Maria*9. The jar was small, but Archie figured he didn’t need too much honey. He was right.*10

Archie left the spice aisle. He left without checking his list. He left without getting any ground cayenne pepper.

“Hmmm,” thought Archie to himself and the woman next to him*11. “I guess the baking aisle is where to find vinegar and brown sugar?” “Yes, it is,” she said. “Thanks!” replied Archie, not thinking twice about the fact that the woman shouldn’t have been able to respond to his interior monologue. His non-reaction actually threw Annette of her balance so much she ended up getting Splenda instead of real sugar, which made her pumpkin pie taste, well, like a dog’s breakfast if we’re being honest.

Now, in the baking aisle, Archie grabbed the biggest jug of vinegar he could find. It was 1.75 gallons*12 and cost $1.69. He forgot that the list said “White Wine Pure Vinegar,” but it turned out not to matter. Whoever made that list in the first place had just never tried any other kinds of vinegar. Regular old white, distilled vinegar worked just fine, and Archie saved himself enough money to buy six king-size Butterfingers.

The brown sugar was another story. Well, really it’s the same story. Fate smiled on Archie and the bag he grabbed was one of seven in the store that would satisfy the ESASDUB gods. You see, this particular bag of brown sugar was harvested on the south facing slopes of a hill in western Haiti. The plantation had survived the earthquake, but many of the workers fled to their hometowns to look after family. Those that stayed behind were worked harder than ever. Extra workers were even kidnapped, shanghaied or even sold into what amounts to slavery to the vicious plantation master Don Jesus de Lorenzo Contreras. One slave in particular lived a tragic life. He was nameless and died one day on the slopes amidst the sugar cane. His last bag of sugar cane that he picked was still slung over his back when the plantation guards found his body. They thought perhaps he had tried to escape, but alas the poor innocent soul had just had enough of this world. The master didn’t care. He took the cane from the boy’s back and processed it into the seven bags that ended up in Harris Teeter in Ballston*13. Had Archie been a conscientious shopper, he would not have purchased sugar from Haiti, but Archie didn’t know anything about sugar and didn’t want to pay for C&H brand. But he only needed half a cup, and this was the littlest bag he could find.

The last ingredient (aside from the cayenne, which, ominously and importantly for this story Archie had forgotten) he needed was red pepper sauce. The list said “Tabasco” but Archie was a bit of a red pepper sauce connoisseur. In the condiments aisle, he whipped out his microspectrometer to analyze the different red pepper sauces. With one glance, Archie discarded all the Tabasco sauces. He could tell they didn’t have the right color. He picked three bottles of Frank’s Red Hot Sauce. Peering through his analyzer, he found one bottle with such a perfect spectrum of red absorbance that he could hardly believe it himself. He’d heard of such sauces being created in small batches in the lab*14 but he’d never seen such an exquisite sample in the wild. He bought it, obviously. It was a big bottle, and he only needed a little bit of it*15, but none of the smaller bottles were sufficiently pure.

So, his cart being full (okay, it wasn’t even close to full, but he had everything he needed. Almost), Archie bought the contents of his cart.

At home, he started to make the sauce. Logically, he used a medium-size saucepan and mixed all the ingredients together. He had to heat it up a little to get all the sugar and honey to dissolve. The sauce had a pretty liquidy consistency. “Huh. I don’t know that I’d call this a sauce, more like a marinade,” said Archie to no one in particular. So he boiled it. And boiled it. And boiled it. In fact, he boiled it down by about half.*16

He tasted the hot sauce. It tasted like warmed over garbage. “WOW! I must have done something wrong, because this is a horrible sauce!” He checked his ingredient list again. It hit him like a ton of bricks. He had forgotten the cayenne. He scoured his spice rack*17 but couldn’t find any cayenne. “Ah shucks,” he thought. “I guess I better walk back to Harris Teeter.” And so he did.

Or at least, so he TRIED to do. Halfway there, a strange maroon van pulled up to the stoplight right beside him as he waited for the white walking guy to show up on the crosswalk sign. Three men in black hiking gear leaped out of the van and grabbed Archie. Before he could utter a sound, he found himself tied up and dressed down in the back of the van.

“Vee know vat you are do-ink,” said the leader*18. “Vee know you are after ze sauce of destiny. Ze ESASDUB. Vee are ze guardians of ze sauce. You cannat make ze sauce. It is impossible. You cannot be allowed to continue. Vee vill put a stop to your actions. Zat is vy vee are kidnappink you!”

Archie fainted.

He awoke one day later*19 on the top of a strange hill in a strange land. Luckily, there was a sign right next to him that read as follows:

Welcome, Archibald, to the Legendary Spice Isle. You are respected for your culinary genius in coming so close to creating the ESASDUB. But you cannot be allowed to continue. He who holds the knowledge of the ESASDUB holds the knowledge of good and Evil. You are hereby exiled to this Isle. You shall spend the rest of your days here. Unless…

But the rest of the sign had been destroyed in last night’s storm.

Archie spent his days comfortably atop the mountain. Food was delivered mysteriously every night. It was super-delicious. But no matter how good the food was, his brain would not stop gnawing on that “Unless.”

“Unless, what?” was the question constantly on his mind. He dreamed about unless, he wrote “unless” in the dirt over and over. He thought of a hundred, at thousand, a million*20 different “unlesses.” Finally, when he couldn’t take it any more, he decided to confront his mysterious food bringer.

Late on a Saturday night, last Saturday in fact, Archie hid behind a big boulder and waited for his captor*21. Footsteps echoed across the mountaintop at roughly a quarter after one that night. A wizened old man hove into view. Archie was shocked. It was former president George H. W. Bush*22.

Archie leapt from behind the boulder. “GEORGE BUSH?” he cried out into the dark. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you keeping me here? WHY!!??”

Howard Bush hung his head in relief or shame, Archie couldn’t tell. “The day has finally come,” he whispered. “The end is here.” He looked wistful as he murmured. Wistful and honored and afraid.

“What do you mean?” screamed Archie. The end of what? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

And so Howard explained. He told the story of his life, his painful childhood, his desperate effort to find meaning in his life and his excitement at finding out his true destiny. While his brother became the leader of the so-called free world, while he oversaw the fall of the Berlin Wall and the death of global Stalinist Communism, Howard lay in the shadows, guarding the final, most powerful culinary secret. And it had all led up to this. Ancient ESASDUB lore held that one day, an innocent man would unknowingly come close to creating the perfect sauce. He would be missing only one ingredient: the quintessential cayenne.

“I have it here in my hand,” Howard croaked as his life came to its culmination. “Take it, Archie. It is yours. You must make the sauce. “

In confusion, Archie reached across the gap between them. His nightly food tray clattered to the ground, falling dramatically from Howard’s left hand as he reached out with his right. Clasped there in his right hand was an unlabeled jar with a powder so deep red that it was almost painful. As Archie touched the jar and wrapped his fingers around it, an electric shock shot across his nervous system. He felt complete for the first time in his life.

He held up the jar in triumph, knowing he was now in possession of the purest cayenne known to man.

Suddenly, he heard a gurgle. He whipped around and saw Howard collapse to the ground. In his hand was a broken capsule marked “CYA” on one half and “NIDE” on the other. Howard had poisoned himself.

“Don’t worry,” groaned Howard. “It was how it had to happen. The only thing keeping that capsule intact was my grip on the cayenne. I’ve been clutching it in my withering claw for 32 years now. It is pure peace to know that my task is over. I go to my grave happy,” He rasped. “Come closer,” said Howard. Archie put his ear to Howard’s lips. “Rose….bud…,” Howard whispered, and breathed his last.

Instantly, a crack team of sauce commandos dashed to the mountaintop. “Come,” said the leader. “You’re time hass arrifed. You must return to ze kitchen und complete ze sauce. You are ze saucekeeper now. “

The next day, Archie stood over his saucepan. He was surrounded by the aged inner circle of guardians and their younger protectors. They watched on in a mix of fear and honor as he added two tablespoons of cayenne. A light shone from the sauce as the ground pepper hit the liquid surface. If a host of angels had been there, they definitely would have burst into song.

The sauce was finished. And it was perfect. In the fall of 2010, after more than 700 years of waiting, the world was ready for the ESASDUB. Its time had come. This is the dawning of the age of ESASDUB.*23

*George H. W. and Barbara Bush use the White House Credit Union in Arlington. This credit union is reserved exclusively for the use of former presidents and their wives. Anyway, one night at about 2 AM I saw George staggering out of his limo toward the storefront of the credit union branch. “Baaaaaarbraaaaa, it’s closed! I can’t get to the ATM! How are we going to pay our tab at The Front Page? They’re gonna be pissed!” Imagine him saying that with a lot more slurriness and you’ve got the idea. So Barbara says to him “Dammit, George, I told you it was closed but you never listen, do you? Let’s just go to 7-11 like I said we should in the first place. GAWD!!!” They got back into their limo and drove around the corner to the 7-11 on Fairfax Dr between Stafford and Stuart streets. George went in to the 7-11 (I’m following them at this point, of course, because who wouldn’t) and comes out a few minutes later with several hundred dollars (just a guess) and two cans of Four Loko. He chugs one of the cans and offers the other to Barbara through the limo’s window. She turns him down and says “Get in the car, George!!” and he’s all “NO! I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want! You can’t tell me what to do!” So he pounds the other can, throws the empty at the limo, shoves his secret service detail out of the way and dashes down the escalator into the Ballston metro station. The next morning, I think, is when Archie’s story starts.

*2 Turns out the pirate thing was just a schtick that O. G. had perfected to sound a little creepier than he really needed to. It worked, but only about 65% of the time. The rest of the time, people just laughed at him. He had low self-esteem because of this and often had fantasies in which he was proud of himself and didn’t care what nobody thought about nothing.

*3 Turns out it was Thursday the 18th, not the 21st. What do you know?

*4 You might not believe this, but things turning into diamonds in Archie’s hand was a relatively common occurrence. Once, as a child, his parents bought him a puppy for his birthday. The next day, he picked up the puppy he’d named Manzanita and the poor dog turned into a pile of perfect diamonds. In many ways, Archie was like the Midas of diamonds. The Diadas if you will. Anyway, those dog diamonds funded Archie’s college education at an expensive but third-tier (at best) college called [redacted on request of said college]. The Old Spice guy is based on Archie.

*5 He was right. For one batch of the sauce it turned out that he needed 4 tablespoons of garlic powder. That’s a lot of garlic powder for one sauce, if you know what I mean.

*6 In the mid 17th century, Mendel carried out what we would now consider an abuse of power and a perfect example of the hubris of man. He crossbred various thyme plants, mercilessly culling any plant that was slightly different from the others. In this way, he created what we now know as modern thyme. To rid the world of all other variations of thyme he built a thresher known as “The Thyme Machine” and paid itinerant Moors to scour the earth destroying strange thymes for all time.

*7 He needed two tablespoons per batch. It’s not precisely clear how he knew this. Serendipity, I guess.

*8This Harris Teeter is the only one in the Western Hemisphere that has an entire aisle dedicated to honey. Okay, really it’s one of those demi-aisles you find toward the edge of the store where it ends half-way back to the wall so they can put some fancy cheeses in floor refrigerators there.

*9 Maria von Helmsteinereinmann emigrated to the US at the tender age of three with her parents Pietr and Pauline. They came from the land of the ice and snow, where the midnight sun and the hot springs flow. The economy there was collapsing under the weight of all the ice so thousands upon thousands fled the country. Many ended up in Virginia. Many others found their way to California and the Baja Peninsula of Mexico. Maria wasn’t born blind, but lost her sight in a freak accident. Her family’s house burned down, and as Maria ran to the window to scream for help (this all happened when she was 8 years old) she was hit full in the eyes with the water from the firehose. The high-pressure water destroyed her retinas beyond repair. She was rescued with only minor other injuries, but for many years after the fire, until she dedicated her life to God and honey under the tutelage of Mother Superior Maria, Maria often wished she had been burned to death instead of just blind.

*10 Four tablespoons was all he needed. The bottle, which was NOT shaped like a bear, by the way, only held 6.5 tablespoons and cost $23.99. I told you it was expensive honey.

*11 Unbeknownst to Archie, the woman next to him was the celebrated psychic Annette Funicello (no relation to the Mouseketeer of the same name). She is one of three confirmed authentic psychics living on the eastern seaboard of the United States.

*12 He only needed one cup for the sauce, but he didn’t care. You can use vinegar for all sorts of things like cleaning counters and drinking.

*13 After taking the last of the sugar cane, Don Jesus threw the boy’s body to the dogs. The dogs, however, recognizing the boy’s holiness, didn’t eat him. Instead, they dragged his body gently to the top of the hill and left it there so that the first rays of sun on a new morning hit the boy’s peaceful face. His body did not decay.

*14 In fact, the latest issue of RPS Enthusiast Monthly reported on a study done at the University of Ghent where perhaps the purest Red Pepper Sauce ever created was created.

*15 Two tablespoons to be exact.

*16 He was correct in doing so and also about his marinade comment. A true ESASDUB should be reduced by half for full effectiveness. Once boiled down, it can then be diluted by half with a solution of one part vinegar and one part water to make a really bitchin’ marinade.

*17 Which was pretty stupid because his spice rack had been purchased from a disreputable online spice merchant and had come with 30 little canisters of oregano, not the wide variety of spices that had been advertised.

*18 You could tell he was the leader because he had a big badge on his chest that said “Der Leader.”

*19 Well, actually he’d awoken about 90 seconds later but the 2nd in command stuffed an ether-soakded rag in his face, making him pass out again.

*20 This is hyperbole. He thought of exactly 8,765 different variations on “unless,” none of which turned out to be right.

*21 Not really his captor, since he was stranded on an island, but Archie had decided the day before that he really was being held captive by this mysterious being. More on him later.

*22 Not really. Even more strangely, it was George H. W. Bush’s long-estranged twin brother Howard. The Bush family hid Howard from the world. They were embarrassed and appalled at his deep and abiding love for spices. It was shameful, and they made sure he knew. As a last ditch effort before taking his own life, Howard sought out the mythical Guardians of the Sauce. He found them in the catacombs underneath the Frauenkirche in Munich. There were only five guardians left. Only five members of the most powerful culinary cult of all time. Howard needn’t have worried about being accepted. His arrival had been prophesied by the great originator of the ESASDUB, Charles de Provolone, in 1312 on the lawns of Bretagne. He was the one who would be the last true guardian of the sauce. The Ultimate Sauceror. He would be the one to unleash the true power of the ESASDUB on the world at-large. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

*23 The age of the ESASDUB will run from December of 2010 to June 21, 2345. At that time, a new day will dawn with the creation of the perfect hollandaise sauce. The secret to the hollandaise is currently being held in an undisclosed location by a secretive band of Flemish painters. The current guardian’s name is unknown, but Wikileaks has recently released documents showing that, at one time, James Ensor, Belgium’s Famous Painter, was the Guardian. Many people have scoured his paintings for clues. His The Entry of Christ into Brussels is redolent with hollandaise imagery, at least to those in the know.

A Ride in the Park

So, today, June 25th, I rode my bicycle to work for the first time this year. Last year at this time I already had about 500 miles to and from work. But that's neither here nor there. Well, actually I guess it's there, technically.

Anyway, here's a picture of my route.


Anyway, it's a pretty short ride, 4.5 miles. But that 4 miles is pretty scenic. In that short ride, I get to see (either up close or from a distance (The world is blue and green, amirite?)

Iwo Jima Memorial

Arlington National Cemetery

The Potomac (aka The Little Skanky)

The National Cathedral

The Lincoln Memorial

The Washington Monument

The White House

Cosi

CVS

A horse and wagon on Mulberry St

I mean, a reindeer pulling a sleigh on Mulberry St.

Wait, no! That's too obvious! I mean, I saw a tiger with a shark in its mouth riding on the back of Mr. T who was riding a Vespa on the back of a flatbed tractor trailer that was careening into a crowd of ninja midgets riding on the backs of another crowd of midget ninjas (camelfight-style). On Mulberry St.

When I used to live in Canada, all I ever saw was cars and some cute furry animals. AND ONE F'N BLACKBIRD WITH RED F'N WING!

A Tale

Yesterday I twoerted that I like the Antlers album Hospice and that it sounds kind of like a Bon Iver/Secret Machines mashup. I was wrong. It's not a mashup. It is a much more complicated relationship than that.

It's more like Bon Iver and The Secret Machines were seat-mates on a trans-Atlantic flight in the early 80's from Munich to Chicago. After takeoff, they started chatting about this and that and found out that they both lived in the same upscale suburb north of Chicago, right on lake Michigan. In fact, they both knew some of the same people, went to the same dentist and had kids in the same school, though not in the same grades. Bon Iver had kids in 1st and 5th grades while the Secret Machines had twins in 3rd grade, a boy and a girl. They also discovered that they were both Vietnam veterans, Bon Iver an Army officer fresh out of West Point at the time and the Secret Machines an Air Force mechanic. The Secret Machines had been there for the fall of Saigon. As the plane landed, they exchanged phone numbers and made plans to see each other again soon.

Two weeks later, Bon Iver calls up the Secret Machines and invites them and their wife to dinner on Friday. In another strange coincidence, Bon Iver's wife and the Secret Machines know each other. In fact, they were once high school sweethearts so desperately in love they planned to marry at 17. The wedding was prevented by Angie's parents because the Secret Machines were worthless failures who would probably just end up having to enlist in the armed forces because there weren't any other options for no-accounts like them. She cried for days when the Secret Machines DID enlist. But she moved on. She went to college, got a job as a copy writer at a big downtown ad agency and the Secret Machines showed up in her thoughts less and less until she met Bon Iver at a happy hour on the Miracle Mile and all thoughts of the Secret Machines disappeared. He was a handsome, dashing Army officer just returned from Vietnam and Angie liked nothing better than an emotionally wounded man to care and fall for. So a year later they got married. He worked for a big defense contractor and worked his way quickly up the ladder to Vice President in charge of Munitions Operations. They had kids, bought a house on Lake Michigan and everything was beautiful and kind.

But all of that came crashing down as she saw the Secret Machines for the first time in nearly 20 years. They didn't turn out to be a no-account. In fact, they were now the owner of the biggest aircraft maintenance company in the tri-county area. Midway, O'Hare, even Milwaukee all used the Secret Machines for maintenance contracts. Their wife was lovely. No, not just lovely. Stunning. The kind of woman you see on magazine covers or billboards or trading cards if they made trading cards for beautiful people.

At first, the Secret Machines didn't even realize the connection. They were so far divorced from their past as the poor kids from the wrong side of the tracks that everything before 1974 seemed like a dream, or a copy of copy of a copy, or a television show that you forget about as you are watching it, flushed down the short term memory hole. But then, the Secret Machines were introduced (or re-introduced) to Angie and everything that would happen in the months ahead was written on their eyes in that instant.

At dinner, everyone laughed about the coincidence and the Secret Machines and Angie told stories about the old days. Everything was perfect. The Secret Machines felt young again. Angie made love with Bon Iver more fiercely than she had in years that night. He credited the 4 glasses of wine she'd had, but really it was the Secret Machines coursing through her head.

They began a torrid affair, the Secret Machines and Angie did. Lunchtime trysts, "out of town meetings," and soon they realized that the love they'd felt as teenagers was no passing fancy. Or was this just a mid-life crisis? A clinging to youth and power and soul and life that was doomed to burn out? No, it must be love, they told themselves over and over and over. Saying it did help to lessen the guilt a little.

And so the divorces started. Bon Iver, resigned to his fate, parted amicably with Angie, sharing custody of the children. He was hurt of course, and though resigned to it, did occasionally curse his fate. Of all the people in the world to end up next to on that flight, why did it have to be the Secret Machines? Why not John Ritter or even Jack Johnson? Why godammit? He had a good life! A good wife! And now he had his munitions. At least with Panama and Grenada, Libya and Afghanistan business was booming.

The Secret Machines, however, forced an unwanted and devastating divorce on their gorgeous and emotionally unstable wife, Emilia. Two weeks before the divorce was final, she took too many muscle relaxants. Her car was found wrapped around a bridge abutment and her body was crushed inside the Jaguar. Her face, the thing that had attracted them to her in the first place, was untouched however. She could almost have been closing her eyes to listen to a particularly good aria at the Chicago Opera House. It was a wonderful funeral, as far as such things can be wonderful. The kids were crushed to lose their mother and turned to the Secret Machines for more support than ever. They had always been a good father, the Secret Machines, and it broke their heart to think that it was their actions and an internal combustion engine that had pushed Caroline and Jeremy's mother into that abutment. They never told the kids why. The police wrote it off as an accident. So it goes.

And life went on. The Secret Machines and Angie married and moved to a different suburb on the lake. Bon Iver never did remarry. He had plenty of opportunities, but something just never felt right. Maybe she smelled to much like soup. Maybe she stole his cat. It was always something, and as his children grew up, they passed word of his excuses and reasons to Angie when they were at her house. Every time she heard about Bon Iver, she felt a pang of sadness, knowing that she was partly responsible for his emotional state, but the pangs always passed quickly.

The kids grew up, moved out, started families of their own. Grandkids came around every so often, in from New York or Dallas or wherever it was their parents had moved them to now.

Then one afternoon in September of 2008, Bon Iver's phone rang on his mahogany desk in his Chairman-of-the-board suite. He picked it up. The voice he heard on the other end was familiar, but so.....old.

"Angie died last night," said the voice, and Bon Iver knew at once that it was the Secret Machines. He couldn't bring himself to speak. So many emotions were being generated by his glands that he couldn't even breathe. Hate, fear, sadness, schadenfreude, and regret. Anger, panic, despair and the crushing sense of lost hope. For he'd never given up. Like the grown children of divorced parents, his own children, he always harbored a ridiculous and irrational hope, that maybe just maybe she would change her mind. That they would get back together. But now it was impossible. It felt like his life hadn't changed, but somehow the universe was different.

"It was colon cancer. The funeral's next Monday if you would like to come. It will be at Memorial Cemetery on Westminster Street. 1 PM."

And again, silence.

"Goodbye, Bon Iver."


And so he did go. He went and he saw his old friends that had sided with Angie. Everyone looked so ancient, so withered, half-dead and it hit him: that's how I look too. And he realized that it was too late. But yet not too late for some things.

At the wake, Bon Iver went up to the Secret Machines. "I'm sorry for our loss," he said. "Our loss," not "your loss." The point came across clearly. And they started talking. They drank scotch and talked and ate things off trays that the waiters brought around. The Secret Machines told stories, Bon Iver told stories. They shared as only two lonely people at a funeral can.

A week later, the Secret Machines received a call.

"It's time," crackled the voice of Bon Iver over a cellular connection that was interfered with as one of the largest solar flares ever recorded washed over the earth in a bath of plasma and voltage.

"It's time to record an album."

"Let's do this before we die. Let's do this before it all goes black," said the Secret Machines.

And so they did, and that album would sound kind of like The Antlers - Hospice.

Anyway, I give the Antlers 4.5 cuils out of 5.

You Say You Want a Revolution!?

Well, I don't have one for you.

What I do have is a brief story about how one time I went out to real Virginia (this would have been last week) and as I was just starting to drive, I realized that I didn't have any CDs with me in the car (and mind you, this car has a 6-CD cartridge changer in the trunk!) so I stopped at my favorite record store to buy some. Since it's kind of a long drive, I purchased 3 new CDs. I am doing my part to keep the record companies in business. I only pirate software. So here's what I think about those 3!

1) Shame, Shame - Dr. Dog: Honestly, I'm a little disappointed. Fate was totally good, so I expected the same. It was only regular, not totally, good, though. I think it earns 11 dog-eared DSM IVs out of 14 (They're not a real doctor, but we call them Dr. Dog)

2) Infinite Arms - Band of Horses: You know that one song, Funeral by Band of Horses? Yeah, that's about my depth of knowledge of them too, until I bought this album. Basically, I chose to buy it because The National was sold out and I'd heard of this band and the cover looked really cool. I know I'm not supposed to judge things by their covers, but a lot of time it works! And it did here. This album does for symphonic dirge-pop what Shame, Shame did for medical canine-pop. By that I mean it was a new album. Rating: a linear approximation of a Taylor series (the fourth Taylor series to be exact)

3) Congratulations - MGMT: I liked it. I don't care what anybody else says, I like it! (BTW, what do other people say? I really want to make sure I'm not going outside the group consensus on this. I don't want to lose my valuable CRED points.) There is a song about Brian Eno. Rating: On a scale of 1 to Clever! this one gets a "ConGradulations!" with a picture of a diploma.

In Which a Day Burns Out

You know a good way to waste a perfectly usable Sunday afternoon? Go to the stupid ER because you're stupid worried you might be dying because your stupid heart is beating erratically and super-fast and you're all dizzy and sweating like a sieve (does that even make sense?) and then not too long after they admit you, it kinda goes away and it turns out you probably just drank to much stupid caffeine but you have to sit there and talk to them and say "no, I don't snort cocaine" and they take stupid blood out of your stupid arm and then put stupid saline into your stupid arm and then they finally let you go home but not until after you wasted 3 stupid hours of your stupid life.

Not that I would know.