Tuesday, June 30, 2009

unsaid

the wind it was from out the south
that took the words from out my head
and put their bite into my mouth
the wind it was that woke the dead

the dark was not to be unsealed
not ready for the light to show
in long hid places still concealed
the dark was not a thing to know

the words were thoughts and only that
not ready for the light of day
unformed unshapen and quite flat
the words were not the words you say

the echo came from off the ear
that heard the words were left unsaid
and spoke from out beneath the fear
the echo came and woke the dead

the echo heard the words unsaid
the wind it was that woke the dead

***

don't ask me what this means, tell me
.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Alone / Together

It was raining, that warm April night on Tucker Street, the gentle kind of rain that rinses the day’s dust off the shop awnings, and leaves the sidewalks glistening in anticipation of stiletto heels and Keds. I stood alone outside the window, the Guinness sign behind me reflecting in the gleaming black 69 Grand Prix at the curb.

I lit a cigarillo, took a long drag and exhaled. I watched the smoke mosey along, as mellow as the wisps of Bedtime Story from Boney’s horn drifting through the door, and I felt my soul down-shift a notch. But as I headed for the bar, I heard the slamming door across the street.

I turned just in time to see a girlish figure gesturing at a second floor window, now open with a face in the shadows inside. “You keep your stupid truffles,” she yelled. “And I can get better coffee at Dunkin Donuts.” She hurled a mug at the window. It missed, shattering noisily on the brick wall, and sending her running into the street to avoid the shards.

She stopped in the middle of the deserted street to put her heels back on, and compose herself. Now standing five inches taller, she tousled her hair and looked up to see me watching. Her annoyed frown melted slowly into a cool smile. “Enjoy the show, did you?”

I nodded, and tipped my trilby. “He didn't share his truffles?”

She strutted across the street, leaning against the Grand Prix and smoothing her sleek skirt. “Chocolate addicts, they're nuts. And he made this French-press coffee he swore was the best thing since Starbucks. He knows I like vanilla lattes.”

“So let me guess, you like Cosmos too?” I offered the pack. “Smoke?”

“Ewww, those things are disgusting. The drinks and the cigarettes.”

I grinned at her wrinkled nose. “Well why don't you come on into the bar and show me what a mug-throwing, coffee-hating, truffle-jealous chick drinks?” Her eyes narrowed at my blunt assessment.

She pursed her lips, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-six (with heels), and sashayed to the door.

Jack the bartender greeted us as we pulled up stools. She looked at me in the bottle-cluttered mirror. “I'll give you three guesses what I drink on a rainy night after a fight with a guy. Loser buys.”

I turned to study this intrigue, her nails tapping and head bobbing to the compelling rhythm of Max Roach. There was a spark in her eye, like an inner rebel peeking out. She was enjoying this. But then, so was I.

“After a fight? Grey Goose.” I knew her type, so I thought.

She smirked. “That's for the end of a sixty hour week. I just left a guy over truffles.”

“Okay, Scotch and soda? Hold the soda?”

She chuckled. “I'm not your grandfather.”

Hmm. She knew what she liked, even the vanilla latte. That's it. “What you want, is a White Russian.”

She shook her head with a grin. “That would be girls' night out. For the other girls.”

She turned to the bartender who was enjoying the show. “He's buying,” she elbowed me, “and I'll have Henny.”

I nodded at Jack, held up two fingers, and pulled out my cash. We watched silently as he poured the smooth dark amber into our glasses. Together we picked up our glasses, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. Together we leaned back, sighed and looked at each other.

“Kinda clears the stress right out of your day, doesn't it?” For the first time her lips softened into a real smile.

I nodded. “Like a gentle rain on a warm summer night.” I extended my hand. “By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” she put a finger to my lips. “You'll always be Mr. Hennessy to me. But I'll give you a ride in the Grand Prix. You were paying more attention to the car than to me, weren't you?”

“The two of you go together well, I have to say. But yeah, it's a great car. And much as I love the rain, sixteen blocks is a long walk.”

We walked outside, and she dangled the keys. “You wanna?”

I snatched them from her before warning, “You really don't know me that well, lady. I could be a pervert.”

She winked. “So could I,” and hopped in the car. We hit the street and cruised along as Dexter Gordon played to the rhythm of the windshield wipers. The drink had relaxed us both and we chatted like old drinking buddies about life, love, chocolate and cognac.

It took about twenty minutes of random cruising before she gave me a sideways glance and said, “You know this is a lot farther than sixteen blocks in the rain.”

I turned the corner onto Tucker Street. “Or a lot closer than sixteen blocks in the rain.” I pointed down the block where the neon Guinness sign reflected in the rainy street.

She reached over and smacked my arm. “You live on this block?”

We got out of the car across the street from the bar. “Oh look, somebody smashed a coffee cup here.” I grinned at her. “I'd better sweep that up, I know my neighbor won't.”

“You're the neighbor? You’re the one on the balcony playing clarinet. We listened to you earlier.”

“Yeah, I went out for a smoke when the truffles became an argument. He screwed up my recipe, by the way. But wait till you taste my espresso cognac truffle. You’ll have to try one. Or six. Then I'll show you how French-press coffee is done right. But only if you help me clean up.”

She reached out her hand. “It's a deal. By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” I put my finger to her lips. “You'll always be Truffles to me.”

It was raining, that April night on Tucker Street. The sidewalks glistened under a pair of stilettos and a pair of Keds. The Guinness sign put a glow on the street, the Hennessy mellowed our minds, and Guiffre's clarinet wrapped up our souls. But it was the simple wonder of two people connecting in the magic of the night that warmed our hearts. We were alone. We were together. Together is better.
.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

One

Inspired by a writing exercise with a friend... (see end note)



"Sit."

I sat on the hard steel chair. He glared his cold glare from cold eyes. I tried to shrink in my seat.

"Why? Why won't you do this? It's a job, for pete's sake." He wiped his brow.

"I...I can't, I guess." I was at a loss for words.

"I need a drink." He poured. "You need a drink." He poured and served.

We sat and sipped. It burned, all the way down.

He sighed a deep sigh. "Do you care?"

I shrugged, but my head shook no. "Would it help?"

"No. Not now. You had your shot." I watched his big hands fret. "You blew it."

I took a swig. "Yeah right. You think that was my shot?"

He stared at me. "Of course. What did you think it was, show and tell?"

I laughed. "Don’t tell me you think that lame brain, lard ass, big mouth, half wit, two buck, red face, snot nose, desk dork is my shot." I stood, and jabbed his chest with each word. "I. Don't. Think. So."

"But he runs the place. He prints your words on his page. You get paid. What the hell more do you want?" He poured once more.

Wow. Might be he cares. But now I knew the truth, why I did what I did.

"Look. I write. If he likes it, I get paid. If he hates it, I don't. Fine. There's lots of ways to get your stuff out there. More fish in the sea, I think you said. But I will not write crap just to please his blue-nose stick-up-her-butt wife."

"She went to Yale, you know." He grinned.

"Of course I know. It's on her plates. Yale Grl. Like a girl scout badge. Sad, if that's all she's got." I took a swig.

"Well she does have a man who owns and runs this rag. And a fine pair of --"

"Oh grow up. She has a fine pair of hands that have not worked a day in her charmed life. That's what she has." I drained my drink. "One more?"

"Last call." He poured the last drop. "Well she had a name too, a name for the piece she wants you to write. You have yet to tell me what it is. Must have been bad though, the way you looked." He smirked.

"She thought it was cute, way cute I think she said." I shook my head.

"But when you turned her down, she talked to him?"

"And in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, I was out the door."

"What now?"

"I'll write. That's what I do. They read it, or they don't. But I write."

"So what was this high-brow name she thought you had to use?"

"The name for my way cute piece was to be..."

"…The Monosyllabic Sesquipedalian"

He grinned. "Good call, dude. Don’t write that."

I put on my cap and went for the door. I turned with a nod. "Thanks, man. For the good word. And thanks for the tea."


...a writer friend who bragged about the wonders of one-syllable words when we wrote a very short story using very short words. She inspired me to try this. Go ahead, count the two syllable words.
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Monday, June 1, 2009

Alone

Alone in the bar he looks out in the rain
At the cold black asphalt and tries to explain
Why the dark eerie shadows and unsettling wind
Put a twitch in his soul like a cold mortal sin

The air has a bite like a freezing rain drop
That lands on your neck and just doesn't stop
Sends a twinge down your spine clear through to your toes
And it tells of a danger your primal brain knows

He pulls himself in, tries to shut out the world
Not wanting to face the darkness unfurled
He huddles alone with his glass and his fear
And pretends he can’t feel the evil that’s near

The night has a chill, like a bad movie scare
When the ogre you feel that’s lurking out there
Slimes his way slowly in from the shadows to seize
Your heart by the throat as you fall to your knees

But it isn’t the rain and it isn’t the cold
Not the dark moonless night the real story hold
It’s the chill in his soul and the cold in his heart
That are twisting the last of his comfort apart

For the fear and the dread that weigh in his chest
Are not from the night or the weather’s unrest
But the gloom and the doom and the dark of the street
Are an echo unheard of a dark soul's retreat

No, it's not about me.
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