June 25, 2011 § 22 Comments
Two Pieces by Richard Godwin
Bring me your sordid heart
the one you took next door
as a bird hovered near your hollow head
and pecked at your lies
Who scurried at night
among the debris and pain
fetch it here and bake it with sauce
and myths of your virtue
Did you lie back and think of it pumping away
all that blood through your tangled veins
a web of intrigue in your sickened soul
a pulse of promise and a spurt of life
It is rotund obscene
full of corrupt desire your lustful
hatred and your cheap allure
the breath of your promise like a broken toy
It is a fat muscle with redundant purpose
it is a mystique you never did acquire
you spent it on condoms and come
you left it in your stained bed
And now you seek it
it is here in the sewer with the forgotten things
you never lost just threw away
with yourself and the tawdry imitation of you
It is not blue you are
It is blanched whiter than a whale
Which spews up from a foaming sea
It is your intrepid soiled reality
THE MAN IN THE T SHIRT
At night I drive through the city. The road sounds like a broken bone beneath my wheels, I am driving over broken bones, the skulls and skeletons of all the dead, gone in the war and buried like dogs alone at night or in the daytime that brings no sunlight now, just a wound in the skyline.
I look down on the city of dreaming lights from my hotel window.
It is past midnight and I stand on the twenty-fourth floor.
The streets coil like an electric snake around the houses and the lights stretch all the way to the edge of the horizon.
Below me the river flows with some freezing frequency against the electric heat and charge.
The city bristles with deceit and crime.
I can taste it.
The freeway buzzes with a hive of cars like bees released and hungry for nectar.
The nectar these drivers seek are hookers they visit on their way from work.
They stop at sports clubs to shower the women’s flesh from them before donning virtue like a worn hat.
There is no hush.
I watch these men and women who use night time to do the things they do.
I see a car stop in the road below me.
Through the reinforced glass of my window and at this height the man who gets out is less real than an actor on the TV I do not put on.
I am tired of the same dish it serves me. I want new excitement.
He stands in the middle of the road and starts yelling. A blonde woman in a fur coat gets out. It is not yet cold enough for fur, although the signs of winter are in the air daily as I walk the block to fetch the newspaper I throw away after a brief glance.
There is no news.
The woman is saying something to the man. I am not part of this. I cannot hear what she is saying. I can make out she is attractive and angry. He hits her. He spins and hits her not with the back of his hand but his fist. Her head flies back and she knocks it on the car. She slumps to the ground and he picks her up, hauls her into the car and drives away. I wonder what this is about. I am powerless to intervene.
I am merely a spectator.
I consider if I have become a voyeur.
The truth is I am what the hotel has made me.
It is the structure of the building and its height that causes me to behave in this way.
I look beyond what has just happened.
It is not real.
The lights of some offices blink at me in the sky.
The buildings have taken over with their grim prophecy of our exile.
We are set apart, made remote from experience. Who’d have thought that architecture would finally spell our ruin? In our attempts to house more and more people we have breached the purity of sky and alienated ourselves from one another. We ride the hungry streets searching for the things that make us carry on. Sex and money fuel us.
We are part of their design. They have designed us. They have shaped our world and warped our perceptions. Truth has become a dubious spectacle. They have been doing it for years. Eroding our souls with concrete and steel.
At night they numb us. They heighten our threshold of pain until there is no sensation.
In a disused parking lot a man kicks a beer bottle. He gets on his cell phone and walks away.
Two young women walk arm in arm singing, they are drunk, they stagger in their high heels and look vulnerable. I wonder if they will be attacked by a predator.
A light comes on in a building. I fetch my binoculars and hone in. They are high powered and make the blurred shapes come into sharp focus. I see a man stand at a window. He is playing with something. He is young, well built and wears a T shirt. It is black and he turns towards the window. His T shirt has a logo on it that looks like a bull. Yes, it is a bull.
He seems to be saying something and I imagine he is talking to himself. He walks away from the window, into the room, and I follow him. As he moves I see a man and a woman in there. They are naked and tied to chairs. The woman is staring with horror at the man in the T shirt. She is tied with ropes and they are cutting into her breasts. She is trying to say something. The man is tied as well, the binds tight against his genitals.
I think of turkeys trussed up. There is the melody of an abattoir that drifts into the static space of this spectacle, a melody with no music, just the staccato rhythm of noise jarring against a structure, like a needle on a bone.
The man in the T shirt hits the woman across the side of the head.
She spits out a tooth. Her mouth runs with thick blood.
I realise they are not playing a game.
She is screaming now, pulling forward on her binds and trying to escape like an animal.
The man in the T shirt shoots the man in the chair. He slumps forward, all resistance gone, a relic.
I wonder if I am giving reality to this scene. I want to help.
The man in the T shirt shoots the woman and leaves the room.
The word violation floats before me. Its sense seems to have been removed, it is like an egg shell with the small dead foetus of a bird inside it.
I watch, my binoculars trained on the building as if it might give them life.
I stand looking at them. They do not move. I look at the city. I rest. There is none to be had here. The hotel has no guests.
I can hear movements in the walls, the structure is being eroded from within.
They have infiltrated the structure of our lives with overload.
They have invaded us like tiny parasitic worms that crawl beneath the surface of our skin and eat our food within our bellies. That explains the hunger, the constant gnawing need.
We have been impregnated by some nameless nocturnal rapist. The deformity inside us is leeching our nutrition from us.
All part of the political program. The body politic has swollen like a tumour. Our alienation is complete. They have sealed us off like vacuum packed food.
It is a subtle form of entropy. I wonder if the system can be punctured.
Everything is accelerating within this gradient of disorganisation, the speed is like frenzied masturbation. They have organised the direction of our pleasures.
When I look again the man and the woman are still slumped in their chairs, alone in the room.
I get my coat and head down into the street. I have my weapon. I walk to the building.
I want to see what theatre this is. The city is a hall of mirrors.
There is a doorway that leads to some stairs and I figure what floor they are on and buzz the intercom until I am admitted.
I scale the stairs. I face two doors.
My estimation of the direction the room faces and the layout of the apartments leads me to one and I kick the door in. I walk through a hallway and find them. They are naked and real. Blood spatters the walls, my binoculars do not pick that up, this is a better image. They are dead and there is no sign of why this has happened.
I consider if this is an interlude between acts.
I hear coughing and a shuffling noise as if offstage an understudy has dropped his script.
I turn, a man wearing a hat is standing in the hallway and he begins to run when he sees me.
I run after him. He starts to go into the apartment opposite and I grab him. He pulls a knife and I draw my gun.
He slips away from me and slams the door. I stand in the hallway saying I found them.
He does not hear.
I return to the hotel.
I know I have to find the man in the T shirt. I watch the city come alive as day breaks. A grey sky pales against the electric lights. I watch the workers leave and return. They are drones. They hum. The air conditioning is wheezing. I consider they are poisoning the air.
I watch the sky fade.
I scan the area for the man I must find. I consider that he may be a politician.
I look at the apartment but they are not there. The man and woman who led me to this have gone. I consider that victims draw others into their drama. I muse on their culpability.
The city buzzes with decay and erotic violations. It crackles like a psychotic snake.
I go to my car and drive. I tour the city looking for him.
The next day I buy a newspaper.
I am wanted for two murders. The man at the apartment must have taken my picture.
Talking to him is pointless. I look at the room now, but it is empty, a space where there is no indication of what has happened.
It is a vacant stage. Someone is running the theatre. I know the games others play. I think I may be a prop in someone’s drama. The bodies were real. The killing was real.
I tour the city.
I stop the car near the river and walk along its edge listening to the noise of the water.
As I walk I see a shop selling clothes. In the window is a T shirt with a bull on it. I return the next day. The T shirt is gone from the window and women’s dresses are on display.
Party dresses that no one can wear. Women do not wear dresses any more, androgyny is prevalent as is the need for desexualisation within the political program.
A bald man stands behind the counter, he is talking to someone at the back. There is a door and beyond it another man. I walk towards them. I want to see the other man.
‘Did you finish them?’, the bald man says.
‘Two shots that’s all’, the other man says.
They turn and see me.
He could be the man I saw in the apartment. He could be the man I am looking for. They stop their conversation abruptly when they see me. I leave. I consider they are a cult. The T shirt is a uniform. They are a faction of the government. A faction we do not know about.
I think of the man’s face at the window, as he stood and shot them. It may be him.
I drive to the shop at night. There are no T shirts in the widow. There is nothing in the window. As I walk away I see a tooth lying in the corner of the empty shop front, a tooth with some dried gum attached to it.
I read it in the newspapers. They are looking for me. I am wanted. I consider the word.
The streets below me are full of want. I have become an object of desire within the veiled campaign. They want me, and a man with an image of trite anonymity is pulling the reins and dragging the sharpened bit of the bridle into a blind horse’s mouth. The animal’s eyes stare with obscene redundancy into this blackness. There is a hole at its heart. Some contagion of acid. It poisons the flesh of the city. It generates need and the odour of money as it soaks in the sweat and faeces of our days.
The lights below my window bomb like fire flies through the violent night.
The people are ravenous with the hunger of a lifetime’s need.
I train my binoculars on the apartment.
The room is empty.
The lights from the building sparkle with a sinister glow.
I can stay in the hotel.
They won’t find me here.
I will find him.
I drive through the city looking for him.
Richard Godwin is the author of the crime novel ‘Apostle Rising’ which is out now and available at bookstores and online. He is a widely published author whose works can be found in many magazines and anthologies. Please go to his website for more information.
May 29, 2011 § 1 Comment
An excerpt from The Chronology of Water, a memoir
by Lidia Yuknavitch.
When I first met Hannah in graduate school I was a woman gone numb. I would do anything. Anytime. Anywhere.
Hannah was one of those lesbians who looks like a beautiful boy—hazel eyes, that cool short curtain of hair hanging over one eye, broad shoulders, little hips, barely there titties. More like m & m’s. Hannah played basketball and softball and soccer when she wasn’t being a Eugene lesbo and English grad student. She used to wait for me by my blue Toyota pick up truck between classes and hijack me and drive me to the coast, where we’d stay up all night getting it on in the back of my truck, drinking Heinekins and waiting for the sun to come up. Then we’d drive back and go to class. Or I would. Hannah thought grad school was kind of lame. She much preferred sex and club dancing.
So when Hannah captured me and my best friend in the hall after our 18th Century Women Writers seminar by grabbing our wrists and pulling us toward the wall, I already knew it would be something sly. She smiled her sly Hannah smile and whispered, “Wanna go to the coast? I got us a room.”
My best friend blinked so blankly her eyes looked like a doll’s, and I think I coughed academically. But I have to admit it. My crotch went messy pretty much that instant.
After my best friend said something about not having enough money or time and anyway didn’t we have seminar papers due, to which Hannah said, patting my best friend’s head like a puppy dog, “Don’t worry, I already bought us the weekend, complete with a kitchenette,” making my best friend smile like she’d just eaten chocolate, and after I said something equally lame ass like I have to see what’s up with my boyfriend—I have to see what’s up with my BOYFRIEND?—to which Hannah responded “Really? Is he your dad?” Reaching underneath the waist of my jeans with her thumbs.
Oh yeah and after she picked at something on the front of my shirt until I looked down like a twelve year old fucktard and she tweaked my nose . . . laughing a little Hannah laugh–we were mysteriously on our way to Albertson’s to load up the back with beer and wine and food. We cleaned out my monthly food stamps buying gruyere cheese and pickled herring and smoked salmon and those cool not American chocolate bars with fruit ooze in the center and baguettes, the check-out lady scowling at us like somebody’s mother. And, me being me, we also scored three great filet mignon steaks I stuffed in my pants. To try and recover some semblance of coolness.
Listen, you probably think you wouldn’t, but I’m telling you, if Hannah said get in my truck we’re going to the coast, raising her little trickster eyebrow and putting her hand right underneath your breast and against your first couple of ribs, going, I dare you, you’d go.
So there we were crammed three-way up front in a pick-up truck, beers at our ankles, Hannah at the wheel, my best friend in the middle looking a little like our kid, and me with my mane of blond out the window yelling wooooooo hooooo. My best friend kept…squirming between us. I mean she was talking like normal and laughing like normal but her eyes had little electrical sparks in the corners. I kept looking at her but she kept looking away, or into the rearview.
About my friend. We met each other in a Women’s Studies class and hit it off right away. She was smart as a whip but not kiss-assy women’s studies smart—her questions always burrowed underneath the obvious and her seminar papers were more thoughtful than mile. A lot. Not only were her eyes the deepest chocolate you’ve ever seen, but her tits were the roundest and fullest most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen. When I first met her I assumed she was a dyke, mostly because she didn’t have a boyfriend and her hair was cut in a boy haircut and she knew SO MUCH about women writers. Also after about a year we shared a graduate teaching fellow office together and sucked some quite serious face. So we were definitely headed for…something.
That’s a lie. I mean it’s not a lie—it’s just that I’m telling it like what was best about her was her hotness. I wish I could go back and tell her how intelligent and beautiful she was. I wish I had been able to understand the two best things about her—that she was loving. That she was kind. But you don’t get to go back and tap yourself on the shoulder and go Hey fucktard. There’s something big here. I was busy dramatizing my sexuality.
In the truck with Hannah we were headed for the See Vue Inn. If you’ve never been, you are missing a lez secret hideaway. It’s located on a bluff above a beach full of agates, fossils and tidepools. Whales migrate within view and sea lions play in the surf. Elk, eagles and deer are frequent visitors. But that’s not why women go.
Women go because of the themed rooms. The Secret Garden Suite (private garden). The Crow’s Nest (nautical). The Salish (Native American). Princess and the Pea (weirdly medieval). Mountain Shores (rustica). Far Out West (cowgirl). The Cottage (you get the “house” to yourself).
We had The Cottage.
But halfway there my best friend had to pee, so we stopped at a ratty little gas station in the coast range between Eugene and Florence. Peeing women trigger other women’s bladders, so I went into the bathroom with my best friend. Those gas station bathrooms are squalid dump holes that smell like someone shit air freshener. The floors always have weird black slime on them, the sinks are always stained with something that looks a little like a serial killing, and more often than not the toilet is backed up with either toilet paper or, well, you know. Miraculously, our toilet was not backed up. I tried to break open the crappy machine with the tiny sex toys in it like French Ticklers—no doubt installed for truckers—while my friend peed her pee.
When it was my turn, while peeing, I looked up and said, “Everything O.K?”
My friend did this thing she did when she was anxious—she scratched a mole on top of her head that only people who knew her knew was there. “Yeah,” she said.
“Then why are you scratching your mole?” I wiped up and flushed, looking back to see if it was going down or coming back up at me.
My friend went to look in the mirror—the glass made her face look kind of special Olympics. She messed with her hair, pushing her bangs one way, then the other. Her face started to go red.
“Um, are you sure you are O.K.?” I asked.
When she turned around my best friend’s eyebrows were knitting across her forehead. Then she blurted out “NO. I am NOT O.K. O.K.?” Her voice had a tinge of I’m a grown woman trying not to cry in it.
I sat back down on the toilet, which was making a high pitched water pipe screech sound. “What’s up?” I asked.
She closed her eyes. She took a breath and held it in. I hate to say it but she kind of looked like a muppet there for a second. I said her name out loud. Then she spilled it.
“I’ve never licked pussy.”
“What?” I said, as if I’d gone deaf.
I sat there staring at her.
I sat there some more. I looked at the ceiling, the floor with the black slime, then back at her. Was she nervous about having sex with women? It suddenly occurred to me that these were not things I ever thought about. And the reason I didn’t think about distinctions such as this is that I was using my body as a sexual battering ram. On any one and any thing available. In fact, you might say I sexualized my entire existence at that point. It seemed to work a lot like alcohol and drugs. If you did it enough, you didn’t have to think or feel anything but MMMMM good. I looked more playfully at my friend. “I thought that’s what graduate school was for? I thought that’s why we took Women’s Studies? I thought all women did women in grad school so they could say I did a woman in grad school?” I laughed. I was kidding but kind of not.
“Shut up!” she spurted at me from her corner of the shit hole. “It’s not funny! I feel sick to my stomach!”
This threw me. “Like you’re gonna barf? But why?”
She turned around in a circle or two scratching her mole vigorously. “I just…”
“You just what?”
“I’m just afraid I’m going to…you know, like gag or something.”
“You’re afraid you are going to gag?” I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.
“Shut the fuck up!” She stomped her foot and made fists. Swear.
“Look,” I said, “Calm the fuck down. I’m no bonafide lesbian,”—this was indeed true. In Eugene at that time anyway, if you were with women but you also, dang it, still liked the poke, you couldn’t really be a card carrying member. “But I’ve been getting it on with women since I was fourteen and, you know, there’s…there’s lots of stuff to do.”
She considered this.
Then I said, “Besides, even if you did gag, gagging could be, you know, sorta cool too, couldn’t it?” I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing again. She began to swear at me and kind of fake slap my head, so I reached over and grabbed at her pants. “I’m going to do you right now you coy little minx,” I yelled, and ubuttoned her pants and pulled them down. “Jesus. Your underwear is pink. People still wear pink underwear?”
But instead of laughing or swearing at me, she just stood there with her pants down. I looked at her. She looked at me. Then I said, “Do you want me to? I mean, for real?” She shook her head up and down. She closed her eyes.
Women all taste different. Her taste I’d say was a cross between kelp and heavy cream, plus a little hint of pee on the palate since we’d just peed. She smelled like hay and skin lotion. Partway through my lip smacking she said, “O.K. Stop. Let me try you.”
I said “O.K., but did that feel O.K.?” She laughed. I took that as a yes. Secretly I was glad she wanted to switch because my knees on that nasty floor grossed me out. I dropped my pants. She stared at me. I wasn’t wearing underwear at all. “What?” I said. When she got down there and began her mouth to mouth I had to lean up against the wall to take the force of her. I said, “Well jeez, for someone who has ever done this you are a natural,” and laughed.
From within her wet suction she said, “Shalty. Ish O.K. Ish mmrowlrm good.” Then she looked up and said “Um, you kind of smell like filet mignon.”
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s lots of other stuff to do, too, you know.” I didn’t think I was going to hit the high note on this one so I treated the whole incident as a teaching opportunity.
Then I heard a weird noise like the wall was being rammed. My friend shot up and I turned around and yep, there was Hannah’s head up at the shitty little prison window above our heads on the wall. She was grinning and her fingers were curled over the railing—no doubt she’d hoisted herself up boy style.
“Whatcha doing?” she said. And laughed her Hannah laugh.
By the time we got to The See Vue, there were three of us who had licked pussy in the car. Tragedy averted. Minimal gagging.
The little cottage we had sported a fireplace, so I said don’t do anything without me and drove off to get firewood. When I got back, the door was open. I went in. The two of them were in bed with the covers pulled up just underneath their tits—Hannah’s m & m’s and my best friend’s glorious pendulous globes, smiling like Cheshire cats. Cheshire cats who had licked pussy. And in the middle of the bed was a little suitcase that Hannah brought—filled with toys.
I immediately dropped the wood on the floor, shut the door, and stripped, launching myself onto the bed like superwoman.
Whoever was staying in the Princess and the Pea or the Salish or the Far East, they must’ve gotten an earful. Hours of woman on woman on woman whose regular lives didn’t allow for such wild abandon. Sometimes Hannah’s fist up my cunt my best friend’s mouth on mine or me sucking her epic tits. Sometimes Hannah on her stomach me up her ass with a strap on my best friend behind me giving me a reach around—a skill she intuited. Sometimes my best friend on all fours me and Hannah filling every hole licking every mouth rubbing her clit making her scream making her entire corpus shiver her head rock back her woman wail let loose gone primal cum and shit stains and spit and tears. I came in Hannah’s mouth, her face between my legs like some goddess in a new myth. My best friend came with Hannah’s fingers in her ass and pussy, her body convulsing and falling off the bed, me wrapped around her and laughing and hitting my head on the wall. Hannah came jamming a dildo up herself while I buried my face in the clit of her. She pulled my hair. She pushed my head. My best friend curled under me licking and gagging but not not not stopping. I don’t know how many times we came…it seemed unending.
We ate each other we ate pickled herring we ate gruyere cheese. We ate the animal out of each other’s bodies we ate steak we ate chocolate two women my chocolate. We drank each other we drank all the beer we drank all the wine we peed outside. We got high on skin and cum and sweat we got high on pot. We came in waves we ran out and into the waves.
I wanted to stay like that forever—outside of any “relationship” I had ever had and inside the wet of an unnamed sexuality. The moon a grand spectator. As full of alive as the ocean outside the door. All the night it was difficult to tell whose body was whose. The woman of it drowned me. It nearly cleaved my mind. And again. Again. Waves.
In the morning we wrapped ourselves in blankets and drank coffee and perched ourselves about. Hannah on the porch railing outside and my best friend in a big overstuffed chair in the main room and me back in the bed curled up like a lion who’d just eaten a baby. It would have made a nice photo, three women contented like that, three women waking from their own pleasure without any one or anything to put them back in their clean and proper places. But life is life.
On the beach later that day Hannah grabbed my best friend’s hands and swung her around ring around the rosey style harder and harder. My best friend was laughing and then the wind and rain kicked up and then Hannah swung her too hard and let go and my friend went tumbling over sand and rock and scraped the shit out of her face and shoulder. Also she wrenched her back.
Back in the cottage I smoked a great deal of please don’t let this all go to hell pot and got so high I passed out at 8:00 P.M. When I awoke my best friend was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace crying and Hannah was nowhere to be seen. When she came back to the cottage we were just three women again, living women lives, me with a boyfriend and my best friend with a seminar paper due and Hanna just standing there with her idea that had gone to shit. On the solemn heavy drive home I got pulled over and given a ticket buy some man cop—as if the little piece of paper read: not so fast, ladies.
I don’t know why women can’t make the story do what they want.
I don’t know why the story of a woman’s sexuality can’t be the next Great American Novel. Form coming from content.
When we got back to our ordinary lives, my best friend told me she was in love with me. A sentiment I couldn’t find in myself to return, hard as I tried. I wish I could go back and try. It was real, what she offered. But kindness wasn’t something I even recognized. Hannah’s girlfriend tried to commit suicide, feeling betrayed and alone. Though I had an episode or two left with Hannah, I was seduced away from her wild abandon eventually by a man with a fifth of whiskey, and like Faye Dunaway in Barfly, I followed him toward the meated smell and taste of poke.
May 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
The Beast of Waste and Desolation by Douglas Payne
Barrett Busto headed down the road towards home with two buckets full of salmon in the back of his truck as noon washed over the quiet valley of Wasilla. He had been fishing since he was a boy. Now, as an old man, he owned a bait and tackle shop in Anchorage. He was the widow of a content but childless marriage, his wife now ten years dead. Busto was nearing seventy and word had somehow reached him that the neighbors, and even his customers at the shop, thought he was losing his mind. Damn them to hell, he thought. What did they know?
He flicked through the radio channels as he drove on; the receiver gave him nothing but fuzz. Over the dissonant static, he heard a clear and heavy sound ring out like thunder. Moments later he heard the whir of a plane overhead. When he looked up and saw the plane cutting through the sky, he identified it as belonging to a prominent local politician named Stella Peyton. Hunting wolves is a hobby of hers. The revised law stated that aerial hunters had to chase down the wolf with the plane to the point of exhaustion, before shooting it from the ground. Not Stella Peyton though. As a state employee she was granted special provisions that allowed her to shoot it from the plane. She never even had to look it in the eye.
Barrett Busto never saw the sense in hunting wolves. When the wolf population was at its peak a century ago and a possible threat to other wildlife as well as dogs or livestock, the practice might have been justified in some eyes. Now though, with the creature just rising up from near extinction because of such killing, what point was there? Now that the animal had been forced into small isolated populations on the part of human expansion into their territories?
A pelt to hang by a mantle piece.
A righteous extermination of some symbolic evil. Something that is primitive and heathen and ungodly.
Maybe Stella Peyton being a steadfast fundamentalist played into her justification of this supposed sport.
As the stream of thoughts reached its end in Busto’s mind, a definite impulse rose from him to turn the truck around and go off the road, looking to see a sign of her kill. Why he would have such a desire he did not know. There may be just a splatter of blood, or a bullet shell. There was little point in it, but still something drew him there.
Knowing the plane would be gone by now, he turned the truck around in search of where it might have landed to collect the carcasses.
Bits of brush continued to gather on the bottom of Barrett Busto’s shoes and he knew he was close. He could smell the blood. He had already spotted a few paw prints, and they were becoming more numerous as he went out through the other side of the small grove and into the open.
In the distance he saw a small black lump. He approached it with caution, but scoffed when he realized that it was discarded jacket. It was altogether wearable and so he put the bundle under his arm to keep for himself.
He saw the limp body in the corner of his eye, off a little ways to the east. He easily could have missed it and went on. The wolf was still and dead in the cold autumn air. He walked over to examine the inanimate corpse. Its eyes were open and they looked as you suppose dead eyes would. Not those of a peaceful death, but of a death that was resisted and struggled against with great resolve. The pelt was the color of rust and night and maple syrup. it was all of that except for the dark stains of red on this impeccable coat, a pattern interrupted by the gaping hole in the side of the body. Looking close, Busto could see the shell lodged in the animal’s flesh. He didn’t know why Peyton had discarded the body instead of collecting the kill. In her eyes the wolf was no creature to be exalted and this particular one was not even fit for a trophy, but only fit to die and lay rotting in the fields. Busto would salvage this creature from Peyton’s already forgotten memories and bring him to eternity.
The cleaned pelt had been placed carefully over the back of a kitchen chair as Busto began to salvage the meat, slicing it from the bone. he threw it in a large pot with onions, carrots, and chicken broth and allowed it to simmer for an hour. In that hour he burned candles and incense and offered lamentations to the wolf’s spirit, expressing his deeply felt regret.
When the meat was done cooking, he secured the lid tightly over the pot and wore the pelt of the departed wolf on his back, going out to his truck.
Stella Peyton’s residence was a twenty minute drive from Busto’s own house, and so the pot of meat and vegetables was still warm when he pulled up. The sizable driveway was already filled by five cars. He heard bantering voices and short fits of laughter seeping through the walls and out into the street.
He went to the door, the pot cradled in his arms and pelt covering his back, and knocked three times. The lady herself answered.
“Hello,” said Stella with a toothy smile, poking her head through the door. His face did not register.
“Oh, you brought food,” she interrupted, eyeing the pot and opening the door wider.
“Yes, it’s a stew.”
“Well come in,” she said, and then motioned with her hand as she stepped to the side allowing Barrett Busto to enter her home.
He followed her to the kitchen.
“It’s so nice of you to bring a dish, Ted and I made plenty of food, but this is such a treat. Thanks,” she said to Busto. She took the pot from him and set it on the counter.
She led him into the next room, where a group was gathered at a large dining table. They all looked up at Busto as he entered.
“I don’t know where Ted is, but this is his sister Annette,” said Stella pointing to a thin and pallid blonde who was seated at the side of the table, her eyes on Busto.
“Hi there,” Annette said.
“And this is my older brother Keith,” said Stella pointing to a stoutly built man with salt and pepper hair who sat next to Annette, with one seat between them.
“How are you,” said Keith, standing to shake the hand of Barrett Busto.
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Busto, accepting the handshake. The other man’s grip was spongy and cool like the raw flesh of a chicken.
“And I’d like you to meet Carol,” continued Stella, “she’s a volunteer at our church.”
Busto could only see the backside of Carol, clad in a long black dress. Shed strands of white hair clung to the fabric. She turned around to reveal a pudgy face, The upturned corners of mouth forever damned to always convey an insincere smile.
“Afternoon, how are you?” she said. She was without her top set of dentures.
Busto saw Stella glancing around the room.
“Holly and Tex are here somewhere. You know kids, they like to run around.”
“Have a seat,” said Stella, quickly pulling out a chair for Busto to sit down, as if it had slipped from her mind and returned all of a sudden.
“Thank you,” said Busto. He then pulled out the chair at the end of the table and took the pelt form his back, setting it upright in the chair before sitting adjacent to it. Busto now sat across from Annette, an empty seat flanking the both of them on either side.
He looked to the wolf pelt.
“This is the chief,” said Busto, “he has come.”
A sliver of uncertain silence hung over the room and then dissipated.
“Hey there, chief,” said Keith, waving to the pelt, this caused all at the table to laugh, save for Busto.
“I think we should eat,” said Stella, “I’m going to have a rib, a little macaroni salad, and some of that stew. How does that sound for everybody?”
All at the table agreed.
“Kids, it’s time to eat,” Stella hollered, and the children came running down the stairs.
Tex took the seat next to Busto, his eyes immediately attracted to the wolf pelt sitting upright at the end of the table, as though it still lived. Tex, a boy around eleven, had a strong face and short brown hair, with a nose both smooth and sharp like a precious stone. He held a strong resemblance to his mother.
Holly wedged herself in the unoccupied chair between Annette and Keith, wiggling around with impatience. She had light colored hair, almost blonde. Busto could tell from pictures that she looked very much like her father. She must have been about nine.
Stella made up plates for them all. Each with a rib, a few spoonfuls of macaroni salad, and a small bowl of the stew. The broth had been eliminated from the servings with a straining spoon, leaving only vegetables and the meat that had been taken from the very animal she had killed, though this remained unknown to her.
She passed the food to all that were present, and set another plate in front of an open seat for her still absent husband.
“I’m sorry, I forgot your name,” said Carol to Busto after taking a bite of the stew.
“It’s Barrett, Barrett Busto.”
“Well Barrett,” said Carol as she gathered another bite of the stew on her fork. “This is very good. Did you make it?”
“Yes I did,” answered Busto as he sampled his own work. He was satisfied.
“It’s real good meat,” added Keith. “What is that? Veal?”
“It’s the wolf,” said Busto with a smug look, pointing to the ghost like inhabitant of the end chair. It’s head was now resting on the table as if in a state of dejection.
“The wolf?” asked Keith.
“Yes, I skinned it for the pelt and used the meat for the stew.”
“Wow, I’ve never had wolf before,” said Annette, diverting course from the Macaroni salad to sample the wolf meat. She chewed slowly to savor the taste.
Up to that point, Stella Peyton had been consuming the stew with eagerness. Now she set her fork down on the plate, staring forward at nothing.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, standing quickly and taking leave from the table. Soon after, the sound of her dry heaves could be heard emanating from the nearby bathroom.
“Sorry I missed out on the start of the meal, I was next door at Al’s,” said Ted Peyton as he walked into the room where his guests and children were dining. He noticed his wife was not present.
“Where’s Stella?’ he asked.
“She had to excuse herself for a moment,” answered Carol.
“Oh, well then,” said Ted noticing the seated wolf pelt before taking the last available chair at the other end of the table. Though a bear pelt lain over the back of his couch in the other room, This honorific display of the wolf was just too unnerving for him. The dead thing looked regal and full of knowing, like it were judging him from up on high. He kept his eyes downcast, gnawing on a rib.
Stella returned to the table, seeming to have gathered her composure. As soon as she was seated she took the bowl of stew from her plate and set it aside.
“Hi honey,” said Stella to her husband.
“Hey there, you feeling alright?” asked Ted.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Stella, trying to shake off some unseeable thing from her bones.
“Mom, can I go?” spoke the quiet Tex. For most of the time that had passed he had been silently chewing his food, gazing at the wolf beside him with fascination.
“Sure dear, you go ahead.”
Tex pushed out his seat and went scampering about the house, his sister Holly decided to join him.
“So your friend Barrett skinned and cooked this wolf all by himself,” spoke Stella to Ted. “How long did it take you to catch it?”
“Didn’t catch it. Found it. It was your kill,” said Busto.
“My friend Barrett?” questioned Ted in reply, “I’ve never met him.”
“What, you–” she stuttered glancing at Ted, then at Busto, “You–”
She was ensnared in a web of confusion.
“What do you mean my kill?” Stella asked Busto.
“You killed this wolf this morning. Don’t you remember? I saw your plane go by when I was driving home and then I found him. You left him there.”
“What?” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “What? Why would you do that?”
She stared at Busto, and again looked to her husband.
“You don’t know him?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen him before. Never,” said Ted.
“None of you know him?” Stella asked.
All at the table shook their head.
“Oh my God,” said Stella as she pushed her chair out, trying to stand and not being able.
“I think you need to leave,” said Ted to Barrett Busto, “Please, just take your things and leave.”
Busto rose from the table that was lined on all sides with men and women who looked as lifeless as the wolf itself, which was now absent from the table.
“Where is that damn thing? Where’d it go?” said Ted.
It was in that moment draped over the body of their son Tex, who was prowling through the grass in their expansive back yard, weaving through the small patches of trees there and growling at birds.
On shaky legs, Stella handed Barrett Busto his half empty pot of stew and Ted almost pushed him out of their front door before calling the police.
It was in the night that Stella Peyton had a dream. She was standing naked in a snow covered glade staring into the wrathful eyes of the beast. There was no sky between them and she had no gun. She knew that in that moment the beast was stronger than she and that it could kill her. She saw the sharp edges of its gleaming teeth and in its eyes all of the power and mystery of the world, before she fell to her knees in fear. For a moment the beast stared into her face, wrought with terror and the agony of weakness, before turning away and going back to that from whence he came. Stella Peyton sat up in a cold sweat, unable to believe the force of such a dream.
At the very same time, her daughter Holly lay asleep in bed, half covered by the sheets and clutching the wolf tight to her small body. As she squirmed in some unknowable vision of sleep, the pelt rubbed against her and pushed up her nightdress, holding the warmth between her legs.
April 13, 2011 § 1 Comment
In a lust of licorice—
suddenly my sinus
cavity is open, and I can breathe,
but only suddenly.
Then I need more.
I don’t need water or sugar—
because the image that you
have painted inside my skull,
on the bone of it—
on the bone of it—can not
be removed by 80 proof whisky,
no for that I need, turpentine.
Roses by Dan Lasher
Dead dog sister melancholy wise up. Winter set in cool breeze through my hair against my skin. Your way is not enough and summer time charm has no time to care. Forgetting the scenes on your eye lids and laughing at the madness on the screen, shrill, calm, cool, disdain. The captain is green and the crew is mutiny. The night time fearless, while mourning lapping against a hallowed haul. Blood is drawn, and the young man dead in the bath, overdosed, his girl still out there somewhere.
Robins cry, sparrows sing, so close to land, I think, I can taste it, but I can’t see it. Nereid, sweet nymph, mother of helpful seas, help me.
We got in before sunrise, the mountain was burning and Jamie is dead.
Her tragic suicide has left her homeless, tears on her pillow, still it burns. Remembered only as a child, in her father’s eyes. In her own eyes, her young ones, a woman.
I wish you could come home, your bed is still made and your place at the table set, lavender lining the flower bed outside your window, roses on your bower, and lace on your bed sheets, this time I would tell you.
March 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
In Your Music Mind
by Douglas Payne
The music sometimes wafts from the speakers in a gentle croon, so much like the folk troubadours of yesterday. Sinatra even. Smooth, buoyant, maybe even soothing to the ear. If it is not gentle, then it is primordial. Indeed, this transition might happen within the span of one song. The music is so often a wounded animal lashing out from a state of calm with teeth bared, upset by the wrong touch of a human hand. The sound of these albums, crafted on a cheap recorder with a only an acoustic guitar and a ragged throat to stir up the melody echoes back to the raw enchantment of Hank Williams. At the same time, it precludes the weirdest efforts of the Velvet Underground and the emergence of ‘freak folk’ in the new century. The music is hypnotic more than anything, possessing a quality akin to the ragas of Ravi Shankar.
The music’s greatest asset is it’s strangeness. Scat vocalizations and groans bridging verses that appear spontaneous lyrically, all underpinned by chord progressions that play around with an appropriate stylistic blend of jazz, folk, and country. The strings flit and flutter like an angel’s harp, they settle into steady walking rhythms, they chug and shout like a rapid fire machine gun. The music defies classification, foregoes convention, and comes across unbridled and unscrubbed, and would probably remain so even if given the opportunity for mixers and producers to shape it up, simply because the sounds at work here spit at any sort of glitz and glamor. The music is not commercially viable. That fact is hardly a concern, since nearly all of it has been smuggled out of prisons over a thirty year span up to the present, and the man who makes it might never come out from behind the bars.
Charles Manson is America’s most beloved and reviled pariah. He is a walking nightmare in the American subconscious. At the worst, he is conjured in the mind as an unhinged mass murderer slicing up the Hollywood Hills. If not that, than he is a ringleader of marauders, a black shaman casting spells of violence upon the youth, draping a red shroud over the tye-dyed free love idealism of the nineteen sixties hippie subculture. Whatever the case may be, we might attempt to view the music independently of the man, at least to a degree where we might look Charles Manson the musician, and not Charles Manson the criminal.
Many venerate the work of Beat writer William Burroughs, despite the fact that he was a pederast and heroin addict convicted of manslaughter. However, it is perhaps more probable that Burroughs’ murder of his wife was accidental than it is that Manson’s role in the Tate-LaBianca murders was one of guilt by association. Many people read Burroughs, or de Sade, for the very fact that they led rather dubious lives. Such people are rewarded, because the subject matter of their fiction draws from the sordid tales of their own lives to some degree. Aside from some tracks on his first album Lie, “Big Iron Door” in particular, this is not the case with Manson. Insofar as he doesn’t sing about killing pigs or all out race wars.
The lyrical content in his music, beyond the fact that its meaning is often cryptic if not indecipherable, is spontaneous and imagistic. His entire oeuvre is laced with references to the soul, the mind, love, and nature. All these large abstractions are rung out like dish towels in a tumbling and free flowing cyclone of word play and cultural references to objects like the American Revolution and Marilyn Monroe. His songs, often written in second person, jab at the “game” of modern man, caught in a web of consumerism and mental and spiritual bankruptcy. Another recurring theme is the ‘hallways of always’, the endless labyrinth of jails and institutions that Manson has been all too familiar with throughout his life.
Manson’s first album, Lie: The Love and Terror Cult, was recorded in 1967 and released in March of 1970, a few months before Manson and his cohorts were put on trial for the murders. This has been the most widely circulated of his recordings, having been reissued on compact disc by Awareness Records, and later as an expanded edition by ESP-Disk, under the title of Charles Manson Sings. Both reissues are usually available from Amazon, or can be special ordered at most major music retailers, if you can cope with a few weird looks. A handful of songs from the album have been covered by other artists, most notably a cover of “Look at Your Game Girl” contained as a hidden track on Guns N’ Roses fifth album The Spaghetti Incident, and a revved up punk rendition of “Garbage Dump” was recorded by GG Allin in 1987. The Beach Boys, famously know to be one time associates of Manson, recorded a heavily altered version of “Cease to Exist” for their 1969 album 20/20, and retitled it “Never Learn Not to Love”.
All of Manson’s material after Lie has been put down on cassette tapes, smuggled out of prison by friends and associates and given limited distribution. It is on these recordings that Manson crafts a sound that is organic, visceral, and often times otherworldly. One of the most notable sets from his prison tapes, recorded in the 1980s, was released under multiple titles including White Rasta, Poor Old Prisoner Boy, and Live at San Quentin, the artwork of of this last version parodying the cover of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. This batch of songs is Manson’s musical opus if he were ever recognized to have one. They encapsulate all the qualities I have mentioned above in one continuous stream of acoustic improvisation, complimented by the ambience of shouts, toilet flushes, and the clang of closing cell doors.
One of Manson’s most recent recordings, One Mind, was released in 2005. It was re-released in 2008 under a Creative Commons license as a free digital download. The songs here have a more mellow tone to them. Manson’s guitar never chugs and his voice never lapses into frenzied chanting. He might have his legs stretched out on the bunk, guitar sat loosely against his torso, a now ghost white hair of his beard fallen onto the weathered wood of his now weary instrument. We know that Manson’s legendary fervor is hardly absent only when another inmate has the nerve to ask him for a cigarette in the middle of a song. Manson barks and spits at this trespasser in his audial daydream, his temporary escape from the brick and mortar madness of prison life. For Manson, music inevitably became a vehicle of expression and liberation, a way of melting the walls that have held him for so long. Music became a way of reconnecting with the most pure elements of the macrocosm beyond those walls. Manson succumbs to and channels the universal positive force of melody, song, and poetry in all of its whimsy, playfulness, power, and aggression. His compositions cannot be packaged, pigeonholed, or easily described, but are infinitely melodious and captivating in spite of it all. Manson is not only the most hated man of the 20th century, but its most intransigent and demanding troubadour.
For more information about the music of Charles Manson, visit the Manson Direct website.
March 6, 2011 § 7 Comments
by AJ Hayes
It’s about a burnout bar a long time ago that smelled like puke and sweat and watch their eyes real close because when they go pinpoint something’s going to happen, fast. And don’t be the one
in front of me when my switch gets flipped.
It’s about those 1960s wonder years you all adore when one of the classiest guys I’ve ever known popped his brains all over his bathroom wall because he’d got outed and lost his job. Gray and white and red all over. Peace and Love and Woodstock. Yeah. For some.
It’s about JFK and RFK and MLK and so many wars I lost count and dead kids in uniforms laid end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to . . . well, you figure it out. Please. I’m beggin’ here.
It’s about chatroom ghettos late at night and I’m remotely sliding her panties down the last sweet curve of the tight rump of a girl I’ve never seen who is texting: Takemetakemenowohpleasepleaseplease.
(Or maybe it’s a silverback pedophile slowly roping me into a world I never thought of.)
It’s about a sea container with thirteen young Chinese women stuffed inside all dead on a San Francisco dock and eight old Mexican men lying still and cold in the border hills back of Tecate. They died trying for the American Dream. The same dream we gave up on. Life sure is a funny old raccoon, ain’t she?
It’s about looking at a black man in a business suit taking an oath on an old bible on a chill January morning and with the sun bursting inside of me, thinking, Finally, by God, Finally.
It’s about me caught in the hazel pure infinity of my two-year-old granddaughter’s eyes, thinking, ain’t it all just too beautiful?