A Collection of Poetry And Short Stories

by Marc David Decker

Copyright 1989 Mediahead Publications and Marc Decker


Bullet Words

Dominance. Negligence. Acceptance.
Light of enemies,
Night of a thousand deaths.
Eyes. Ice. Sacrifice.
Loaded gun, empty cartridge.
Bullet words.
Permeate. Watergate. Debate. Administrate.
Sedate. Cooperate.
Operate.
Light of dark.
Might of shark.
Fight of bark.
Cutty Sark.
President. Resident. Hesitant. Too late.
Contragate. Administrate.
Bullet Words.
Sedate. Cooperate. Masturbate.
Operate.
Old slate. New flock.
Locked box. Tick…Tock…
Work. Clocks. Two cents.
Frustrate.
Dominance. Negligence. Acceptance.


Thunder Reality

Thunder, reality.
Wonder. Hunger.
God.
Mother.
Father.
Brother.
Dick and Jane, Spot,
Pretty pictures, farmhouses,
Wonderful world, childhood.
Fiction.
Fairy tales.
I believe…I believe…I believe…
Kansas. Corn. Old days.
Born.
Nowadays, paved highways more or less,
Leading to…Metropolis.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There is not any place
But alone…Toto.
Toto?

 

Distilled Spirits of God

The rain made love to the ancient canyon as I eavesdropped.
His passionate kiss evoked immediate response.
Wet screams of swelling streams came from the deep woods,
And in my voyeur’s perversion, I heard everything.
Earth.
She plays the role of abandoned lover with uncanny realism.
What choice does she have?
She can take the rain back, or die without him.
Survival is paramount.
Though she knows he will leave again and again and again,
She takes him back and charges are dismissed,
By reason of passion.
Passion is always the reason.
As sure as there is a way to things,
She will bear his children and watch them grow and die.
She will forgive him again and again and again.
She must.
Distilled spirits of God…
There is no music so pure as the rain’s lullaby.
I am drunk.
In my enlightened stupor, I heard everything,
And danced with the air as their music played.
It was the song of life and the dance of time,
And I did not care that God could see me.
In his voyeur’s perversion…
He watches me in my voyeur’s perversion…
Watching the rain make love
To the Earth.


Parting Ships

Parting ships, parting lips,
Parting sips of salty bliss,
Seasoned from the parting tears
Of farewell…
She would never tell.
Parting ships of love
Sail off to hell.
Cry goodbye.
Graceful fingertips that trembled
With one final kiss of farewell.
Die goodbye.
Parting ships of love
Do not fare well.

I have Seen You

I am the fire of the quiet volcano.
I am the wings of the wild tornado.
I am the moon through the willow,
And the eyes in the shadows,
And…I have seen you.
My home is the fabric of reality.
I have seen you wander through my threads.
From both sides I have seen your morality,
For my cloth reaches in all done and said.
Back and forth you pass through,
And I have…seen you.
I am the road sign in the place you can’t find.
I am the journey on the road that you do wind.
I am the fuel of the light of all kind…
Back and forth you pass through,
And I…have seen you.
I am the word of the unspoken language.
I am the beast, the rock, and the man.
My name is the nameless,
For I am that I am.
And as you journey across and through,
And ask of me what wanderers do,
Choose reverent words, both pure and true,
For I have seen… you.

 

Marblehead

Thoughts like marble cannonballs,
Were stacked between the desks and walls…
At Looney Larry’s House of Lead,
You never get no sleep at all.
He keeps no pillows down the halls,
And you will find no rested souls,
Nor telephones for restless calls…
There never are no calls at all.
At Looney Larry’s House of Dread,
Ideas are marble cannonballs,
That formulate out of the air,
Although just how is not quite clear.
But when they harden in the head,
And start to fall out of the ears
In stacks between the desks and walls,
You never get no sleep at all.
At Looney Larry’s House of Dead,
Where dreams are marble cannonballs,
It’s bad to be asleep in bed,
And good to be a Marblehead.

Man On A Shelf

Imprisoned freedom…stares across a sea of eyes to no one.
Downed doves, sacrificed, live on.
Some do not threaten well,
Some have nowhere to run.
Some do not fear the end,
Some pray for it to come.
A waste of breath.
A waste of wealth.
A wealth of waste,
Man on a shelf.

 

A Moment In Time

In the blue light of the full moon,
I saw love for what it was and is…
A moment in time,
Forged by the seasons to crystalline diamond.
Infinite. Frozen. Immortalized.
I met her on the train...
You know, the one that used to go to the edge of the world.
In a stateroom of maroon velvet and carved mahogany,
We sailed on wings of real love.
And although that train has long since blown its last whistle,
The tie between us remains.
And although the masses built their city,
Into the very heart of the edge of the world,
That which connects my love to me…continues to endure.
And although I’ve often dreamed of returning to simpler days,
Time has been my enemy so long, it has become my friend.
In the realism of the daylight metropolis,
I saw love for what it was and is…
A moment in time.
Frozen. Crystalline.
Without end.

 

Good Childhood

Soothing treasures, whispers and feathers,
Sea wind through brushes in generous measures,
Lightness, hushes of virgin blue whiteness,
Caressing my eggshell of ignorance,
I miss innocence.
Days of clear wonder,
Nights of not wanting to sleep.
Nights that were darker,
Days that were vivid,
And filled with good memories to keep…
I miss believing in magic.
Years of no pressure,
Filled up with leisure,
While country and family stood.
Kicking the leaves,
That were up to my knees,
Thank you God,
For my good childhood.

 

Never Enough

I feel as though the flower of my awareness is bloomed,
And it’s all too much.
I am the picture of a loon,
And it’s never enough.
I am at the same time both apathetic,
And the epitome of elation,
For the news on the wire, which read, “Nothing is real,”
Seemed to me as knowledge goes,
To be a long lost relation.
I am the overwhelmed oddity,
A somewhat left commodity,
Vain, but yet a player of the game,
In which my vanity is wrapped in insanity,
Or at least on the same side of town.
It’s a strange game,
Wherein I get to clown around.
It’s not a tame game for faint hearts,
It’s an insane game for upstarts.
Just the same, it’s the only game in town.
I feel as though the flower of my caringness is bloomed,
And it hurts so bad.
I am being killed by beauty.
I am gashed and sliced open with love,
And the blood of years is rushing out…
To stain the concrete ground red, to bleach in the hot sun,
To wither away slowly, gracefully, like the pages of an old volume.
I am an old and odd volume,
Whose pages of perception have hit the 3-D silver screen,
And it’s all too much,
But it’s never enough.
Civilized Man
Gratitude and bitterness,
Bankers and junkies,
Masters and servants,
Carrots and donkeys,
Old cars and dark bars,
Wheeze beneath stars
That once sparkled,
When this was a wilderness.
Now they’re barely lit.
For the life of me, I can’t make sense of it.
Taking God’s Earth
To be used as your whore.
A mat that you step on
And leave by your door.
And if, indeed, you are what culture brings forth,
I’ve no patience for civilized man anymore.

 

There Is No Love

My eyes are peeled, visibility is clear,
There is no love… not here.
There are promises of love,
Which seem like so much talk.
The chatter-filled air is bursting,
With dreams that have all walked.
So reluctantly I rise up,
Each and every time,
And eventually it leads me,
To the big, bad, bottom line…
There is no love.
Not here. Not this time.
Just a carousel of disillusionment,
You know too well it never ends.
Round and round you go,
Until you’re dead you know.
And still, there is no love…Oh no.
But there is always…
Tomorrow.

 

Parting Of The Clouds

The light at the end of the tunnel,
Waits before me like a beacon.
It is no longer just a legend,
Or an enemy, or an old friend.
It waits challenging my reason,
And daring me to step in,
Mockingly, as though I have been kept in.
Is it the coming of a season,
Or an ambush in the making?
Is my brain committing treason,
Or will I soon be waking?
And if none of the above,
I know soon I will be taking,
Smelling salts,
Administered by my agent.

The Unchangeable

Moon of Heaven, Bells of divinity,
Days of seven, planes of reality.
Nothing is given, diverse normalities,
All is forgiven, love of serenity.
Wall of compassion.
Language of time.
Struggle of man.
Ancient.
Inevitable.
Mine.

 

When The Violins Play Low

You’re sitting in the splendor of a lofty, golden palace,
Eating cakes and sipping wines and wearing ties to galas…
When life knocks at your door, and your walls come tumbling down,
And you look to see the score, and the score says lonely town…
Where the pieces of your dreams are all scattered near and far,
And you want to fetch them up, but you don’t know where they are,
And as the violins play low, and the melody runs deep,
You want to up and go…but you cannot move your feet.
Until someone comes along, but you can’t recall the name,
And you can’t recall the time… but you know them just the same.
And as the remnants of your dreams slowly fall back into place,
You find that you can move and so you do it… with all haste.
You run into the night and soar upon your freedom,
You want to build your distance from that dark, foreboding kingdom.
You do not stop to eat, and you do not stop to drink,
You do not stop to reason and you do not stop to think,
Until the violins play low and the melody runs deep,
And there’s nowhere left to go and there’s nothing you may keep.
And there’s nothing left to learn and there’s nowhere left to turn,
And there’s nothing left at all… but the writing on the wall.
Your life becomes the blues until the blues becomes your life,
And you sing them in the dark and they cut just like a knife.
So you sing about the city and the hardship and the torment,
And you forget about the magic, of one fleeting moment…
When someone comes along, but you can’t recall the name,
And you can’t recall the time, but you know them… just the same.
When the violins play low and the melody runs deep,
There’s no place left to go… and nothing left to keep,
And the writing on the wall, is all they’ll ever know,
When you hear the distant call… of a violin, so low.


It’s Cool

In the prism of my optimism,
Witticism met with criticism,
I don’t know what was discussed then,
But now they’re the best of friends and,
I can’t believe I introduced them!
Croissants!
Laughing and eating croissants in my prism!
While in the deep end of a dark pool,
Where I keep my cool,
No croissants allowed is the primary rule.
It’s the principle of evaporation,
And it must be adhered to.
For a thorough saturation,
Is a joyous expectation,
And erasing all elation,
Long before one’s maturation,
Is just not my idea,
Of a jolly destination.
That’s what I learned at my school,
Back when I was a young fool…
Now, I’m an old fool,
But… it’s cool.

 

Hound Dogs In The Rain

Dust covered bible, unquestionably unreliable,
Irrefutably undesirable,
And each seems just the same.
If I want them not to find me,
It’s just that they remind me of so many,
Hound dogs in the rain.
Calling out for me to follow,
Down a primrose path,
As if I’d be content to wallow,
In their aftermath.
Shallow. Eyes glazed. All dazed. All day.
All space, ear to ear…
That’s what I fear.
Each day. Each vain.
Each seems just the same,
Until it has become decidedly clear.
I don’t wish for them to find me,
I don’t trust them there behind me,
Playing such a preposterous game/
If I look up and ask, “Why me?”,
It’s just that they remind me of so many,
Hound dogs in the rain.


In A Light That Floats

At four o’clock on a night whose thrill
Is lost, along with inner will,
Then filled with days of things denied,
He leaves his dusty windowsill.
Aboard a leaf like a carpet ride,
To drift and glide and sail the hills,
With moon and stars and heart to guide,
In a light that floats… as a summer’s will.
On a night that’s still… in a light that floats,
On a wind that whirls as a winter’s will,
A rebel page from the book of thrills,
Found refuge in a hand so chilled.
Cookies and mushrooms and large handbills,
With pictures of elephants and wild animals,
Were in the pockets of the man,
To whom belonged this chilly hand.
And none among the witnesses,
Of young… whose unsung restlessness,
Could ever hope to warm the hand,
Did know their innate witlessness.
Yet knowing not the hunter’s kill,
He drifts and glides and sails the hills,
On a wind that whirls as a winter’s will,
In a light that floats on a writer’s quill,
At four o’clock… on a night that’s still.The Mountaintop
On a distant field, is a different view of the mountaintop,
Which isn’t necessarily old, or new, or used a lot,
And even though it mostly stands there dutiful… it’s beautiful,
And right off, that’s much more than what I’ve got!
And it’s taller too, with a better view,
But I don’t know of what…
Probably me and my piano as a dot,
Or my town as a spot?
Maybe, maybe not.
I wonder if he wants us to move or what?
Put all the dots and spots in the desert…
Forget it. Too hot.
At least for this gringo’s nose,
But so what?
Who are you twinkle toes…
Sir Lancelot?
Which, by the way, hasn’t got a lot,
To do with what?...
Oh yes… the mountaintop.
Nothing can match the splendor of the mountaintop,
Or the serenity atop its frozen summit.
And if your eye looks closely,
You can see that from it,
The snowy owl does plummet,
As he’s done it, everyday,
Swooping down upon his prey,
And to the terrible dismay of his wife…
That is, the prey’s wife, “Mrs. Rat,”
And not the owl’s wife,
Why is that?
Because the snowy owl lives alone and has no wife.
But he sees a few parrots…
Down below,
Below the snow,
Tasty morsels one and all,
Don’t you know,
That no good will come of it at all.
Not for the parrots.
Not when you realize, served with carrots,
It’s the owl’s favorite dish!
But wait a minute… that’s no owl!
That’s not even a snowy fowl, or a snowy pal,
Or a Joey Pal, or a Pal Joey…
It’s a fish!
It’s a big, white, snowy, frozen fish!
Which, by the way,
Is Pal Joey’s favorite dish.
Parrots, carrots and snow fish…
Ah...A real meal!
A meal fit for a snowman,
Or a snowmobile, or a salmon…
But then again…
That hasn’t got a lot, to do with what?
Oh yes… the mountaintop!
I think I’ll plan a journey to the mountaintop.
I guess I’d like to go in the spring,
When the warmer weather shows,
And the former winter’s snow,
Melts and brings the water down,
Down below,
Down the rivers and the springs,
To my naked little toes.
Waiting, anticipating toes…
All ten that I’ve got,
Waiting for this moment to savor, and my neighbor,
And his toes and his spot,
And his wife Rose and her dot,
And her toes too… that is, ten,
Or rather, her toes also, which is twenty,
Which is at least two dots,
Or a spot and a half in the ancient language of Toebath,
And their neighbor, Jobeth,
And her toes,
And all her babies and their little toes,
And she’s Catholic, so we’re talkin’ babies,
Megatoes.
Rows and rows of toes.
Dozens of dots.
And I’m not counting the elephant and his toes,
Or maybe it’s her toes...
Who knows?
I’d hate to find out!
Who would ask? Not I, thanks a lot.
You can have that task.
But one thing’s for sure…
An elephant with nose, toes, and garden hose,
Is at least a spot and three dots.
Besides, and furthermore,
I like to be up with the salmon,
Who are running like they oughta,
Wouldn’t you?
With all those rows and rows of toes in the water?
I know that’s what I’d teach my daughter,
If she was a salmon…which she’s not,
Which hasn’t got a lot… to do with what?
Oh yes, the mountaintop.


The Monday Night Football
“Couch Potato Olympics”


“What goes on in that crazy little head of yours?” she asked as sweet as pie. Her blank smile and fixated eyes looked right past me. Her brain was like a cross between Gracie Allen and Tammy Faye Bakker and I didn’t want to hurt her by telling her the truth, which was, “Nothing that an asshole like you would understand, my dear.” So, I didn’t tell her that.
Even a macho shithead can be a gentleman, and it was for this reason that I answered her instead by saying…”I was just thinking how nice it would be to do it in the gazebo, my little morsel.” to which she replied,
“You’re a real asshole, you know?”
Story of my life. But, then again, there we were in the gazebo 90 seconds later, so I guess she was right… I’m a real asshole. But, alas… happy! And glad to be limping.
So, that being the case, I limped out of the gazebo with a smirk on my face, twisted a rocket the size of a telephone pole, and hit the couch with a 12 pound bag of potato chips under each arm. It was time for…
“Monday Night Football!”
The remote controls and telephone lay before me on the coffee table like scalpels on a surgeon’s tray. I made my approach. In one move, I hurdled the end table, kicking the door shut as I landed. And then, without breaking my rhythm, and showing the grace and dexterity of an Olympian, I trampolined backwards off the couch, and while in mid-air, on the way down, pulled the curtains shut as I landed. Then I sprung forward, still in the same motion, over the back of the couch, and landed in the “Upright TV Position.” As I did, my left hand hit #1 on the memory of my phone, while simultaneously, my right hand hit “on” on the TV’s remote. As the TV picture came on, the party on the other end of the telephone line answered, “Tony’s Pizza, may I help you?”
“One large pizza…cheese and mushrooms…and a large coke.” It would be thirty minutes before the pimply-faced delivery boy would show up and I thought, “Too bad they don’t have delivery girls.”
Then, like the ceremonial lighting of the torch at the Olympics, I made the proceedings official by donning my 1985 Lakers Championship sweatshirt in beautiful bright purple, and telling my girlfriend over the intercom / speakerphone from Radio Shack…. “ Let me know when the pie gets here.”
It was hell to be my woman…and I knew it.
I turned around to find the imaginary board of judges in the room with me. As always, they were all holding up their scorecards high over their heads. It was unanimous! 10.0! A “perfect ten” in the “Monday Night Football, Remote Control, Curtain Closing, Phone For Pizza, Couch Hurdle.”
I was pumped. I felt firkin’ great…and not a moment too soon. Ten seconds to kickoff and counting.
9 seconds…8 seconds… Oh no! Not that! I heard the water go on upstairs… my girlfriend’s in the… S-H-O-W-E-R!!!
You fool! You idiot! What if the phone rings? What if the pizza guy comes!? I can’t move now!!! … . I’m the pilot!!!
7 seconds…6 seconds…5… “Ring! Ring!”
I knew it. I knew it! The shit-ass phone’s gotta ring now!...I’m on my way to get it….
“Hello?! #*%+ “
4 seconds… 3 seconds… “Ding Dong!”
“Oh no! The pizza guy’s here!” It’s a new world’s record for pizza delivery. What kind of a time is this for good service all of a sudden?
SSSSSHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!
I slam the phone down and yell, “Hold on!” to the phone receiver and the front door simultaneously. I’m going for a rerun of the “End Table Hurdle”… Uh Oh.
2 seconds… 1 second…..
Kickoff!!
I turn in mid-air to see the TV.! The ball’s in the air! My front foot hits the lamp!
Oh no! I broke my concentration!...I wasn’t high enough!...I’m coming down… the lamp’s following me!...Can I do it?
I’m in mid-air…Air Jordan…the camera’s on me…Slo-Mo Deloxe-O…
I’ve got to save the lamp! It’s the destruction of all mankind if I don’t!
The judge’s eyes are all glued on me.
I catch the lamp by its shade with my back foot…I kick gently upwards and back…yes…Yes!
Oh my God…I did it! It’s up!...It’s back upright on the end table… the crowd is going C-R-A-Z-Y!!
THWONK. Head meets wall. I land.
Damage report indicates heavy casualties to northeast corner of den.
I’m up. The crowd cheers. I’m wondering who’s got the ball for the Bears and I’m thinking I’m gonna kill that pizza kid as I dart out of the den door, psyching myself for the hard left at the end of the foyer.
Oh no! The dog comes around the corner! He sees me running… He thinks I want to play! Here he comes…Barking and jumping… here’s the corner! I gotta turn left! Here’s the dog! I’m up! He’s up! He’s in my face! We’re going’ down!
KWOK.
Oh SSHHHIITTT!! There goes my new firkin fish tank… all over the damned Indian rug…. Firkin-Dirkin-Mirkin.
I’m up.
I’m pissed.
I throw Fido fifty yards for a TD in the kitchen. I make my final move…. down the “Frontdoor Hallway Straightaway.”
Oh No! Louise waxed the floor! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe I let my Yuppie girlfriend talk me into a maid… AND THIS… is my thanks!
WAX!! In the middle of the firkin’ “Hallway Straightaway” in the middle of the final lap! I hate you L-O-U-I-S-S_S_E_E_E_E!!!!!!!
He brakes! He’s sliding! He’s to the 30….. the 20… the 10………. Front door! KA-PLOW-EE. Touchdown……. Pain…. Silence.
The crowd is watching. I take a moment to cry. I want my bottie. I hate Louise. I gather myself. The endorphins kick in. I take a step back. I open the door.
I don’t believe it… It’s not the pizza guy. It’s two guys in white shirts and ties… on bicycles!.... Oh NO!!!! It’s… THE MORMONS!!!!???
“Have you been saved?” they ask innocently.
I can’t believe my will power. I don’t kill them. I’m amazing. I’m a superior being. They still live!
“Have you been saved?” they repeat. I answer, “I can’t be saved… I’m a musician.” I slam the door shut. It’s not my day….
Bullshit! It is my day! Monday Night Football is my “High Holy Day!” I’m pumped. Nothing will ruin this game for me. The GAME!!!
I turn! I’m off! I don’t notice firkin’ Fido under my feet with a half demolished cabbage patch poodle hanging from his slobbering, canine mouth.
He trips me. I’m wiping out…. I figure, “What the hell”…I’m turning it into the “Front Door Hallway Handstand Floor Exercise.” I calculate the adjustments in mid-air. I make my move. Too late. I hit the floor.
I can’t move. Severe pain. I hate firkin’ Fido.
The crowd hushes…they know I’m injured. I’m flat on my back. I strain to lift my head. The imaginary board of judges are all holding up their scorecards… 00.0!!!!!!! Oh my God, I’m ruined! But wait! The guy from Miller Lite is walking over to me…he offers me a contract!!.... They think I’m the next…BOB UECKER!
“What goes on in that crazy little head of yours?” she asked as sweet as pie. I turned my head and found her standing over me. Her blank smile and fixated eyes looked right past me. Her brain was like a cross between Gracie Allen and Tammy Bakker, but, who’s wasn’t? She wore a terry-cloth beach towel with nothing on beneath it, having just emerged from the shower. The view from where I lay on the floor was… encouraging.
“Do you have someone on the phone?” she asked.
“What phone?”
“Aren’t you watching the game?”
“What game?”
“You’re a real asshole, you know?”
“I know. Now get down here before Fido gets back.”
She did.


“Doctor Daddio Takes The Bus”

After thirty-six years of hard living I knew one thing for sure… The last thing I’d blow fifty grand on was a new Mercedes Benz with a diesel engine capable of surpassing the pollution created by eight city buses. But then again, I don’t have fifty grand. If I did, I doubt if this story would be called, “Doctor Daddio Takes The Bus.”
That being as it is, or be that as it may, I looked in the mirror and told myself to “Have a jolly day.” I put on my red shades, turned up the collar of my trench coat and boarded the downtown bus… which just happened to be powered by a Mercedes diesel engine.
On this day I was lucky enough to sit inside the bus. I got to share a seat with a 680-pound man, or woman… I couldn’t tell which…I guess it doesn’t matter. Especially enjoyable was the aroma of grilled cheeseburgers as it lay like fog upon the unwashed skin of the round, human person.
I wondered if it was full grown? Was it hungry now? I thought... it was probably always hungry. I wondered if I should interfere and reveal to this person the key to the universe, which of course, is that 2 apples plus 2 apples is not 4… but 4 apples. Or perhaps I would have an easier time imparting this wisdom teaching if I use cheeseburgers instead of apples?
I decided against it since the need for oxygen was becoming more and more important as my insignificant, little speck of a body panted and turned a lovely shade of severe purple with pink and blue overtones. I tried to think of open meadows.
4th Street finally came and as I shot forth from the bus like a bullet shot from a gun, I kissed the ground and gulped the smoky air. As I did, a woman wearing 4 inch high heels stepped on my left hand and crushed it,
never stopping as she galloped past me in hot pursuit of her runaway white French Poodle. I could hear her shouting voice grow softer as I writhed in pain on the sidewalk…
“Fifi! Fifi! You bad doggie! Come back here!! Bad doggie!!!
Firkin Poodles.
I liked Wheaties. I was glad I had my Wheaties that morning. Traveling to work is so enjoyable… almost as thrilling as the joy of working itself! I was lucky to be working. I was thankful for my 48 superiors, and I was privileged to say “Good morning!” to each as I made my way down the endless corridor to the end… and then left, to the Men’s room. Gotta love them Wheaties.
Time passed. My body weight dropped by 8 pounds. The price of gas rose to 7 bucks a gallon. AM-PM lowered its price on cheeseburgers from 2 for 99 cents to 8 for a quarter. There was widespread panic. Many lives were lost.
I finally emerged from the John and soon after, my bosses recalled who I was and fired me. Depressed and dejected, I thought, “Life’s a bitch… and then you reincarnate.”
It was time to go home. Time flies when you’re having fun.
On the way home, I stopped to cash my final paycheck at AM-PM. I purchased 487 cheeseburgers, which I gave as an offering to the round human person, who, as it happens, was still on the bus… apparently to make my day and my ride back home on the chariots of smoke a little nicer.
About 20 minutes later, the round human person suddenly exploded in the middle of its 193rd burger. As it lay there, I kneeled over and asked if I could help…did it have any last requests? With a Herculean effort it leaned up slightly, muttered one final sentence, then promptly died.
The sentence was… “Pass me a cheeseburger.”
The remainder of the journey home was still smoky… but cheerful and airy.

“The Man Who Couldn’t Be Commercial”

I didn’t want to stand out any longer.
I had had enough. In desperation I decided to blend in. I thought about it carefully and elected to dye my hair blue. However, my hair was scarce and I only had enough for off white at the most. Normally, I could live with an adjustment like that. But, as it turns out, I already owned an off white hare, and, not being a being prone to commerciality, I found myself unable to rip off my rabbit.
So to be fair and respect his individuality… I shot him.
I then painted him the appropriate shade of blue and wore him as a hat upon my head.
Looking commercial at last, and anxious to show off my new blue hare, I went out.
Everyone agreed; I looked the height of fashion… except of course for my hair dresser, who, as it turns out, was a hare herself and was only jealous and later, actually ripped off my rabbitesque-type hare hat.
Infuriated and hareless, I swore revenge. I stalked and slithered and snuck up on my hairdresser as she was eating a BLT without the B. She wore my new blue hare so matter of factly upon her head like a queen. All the waitresses complimented her on her good taste and commerciality.
Oddly enough, I found myself agreeing with them! The two hares worked well together, and not wanting to break up a matched set, I made a hairdresser’s mother very sad.
Today, I am the proud owner of a double-decker rabbit habit. However uncommercial it may be… you can imagine how pleased I am.

“I Like Blue Planet”

The city ran for hundreds of miles in every direction. As far as the eye could see, its claws of steel and concrete punctured and ripped the skin of the blue planet. Geometric splinters sliced far into the sky, which, once blue, was now a brown-grey brick of poison. The poison masked the stars and everything else… creating a black and white monotone, which felt like the expired last breath of a dead man. This… was home.
It was 3 A.M.
He slept on his side and breathed the poison slowly. From a nearby track, the sound of a freight train sent its slow pulse through the open window of the sleeping jester.
He awoke. He heard the pulse. He knew it. It was very good and he listened with thirsty ears. The good sound was the sound of life. It moved. It held adventure. It rekindled old feelings and it went anywhere.
He liked anywhere.
The good sound was contagious and he caught the good disease the moment it hit his ears.
When the sound faded into the night, it took a part of him with it. The part of him it took was the happy part, which, is not good for a jester… or anyone else.
It was just a freight train. He was just a jester. It wouldn’t make much difference to anyone. So, he packed a modest bag and melted into the night. He waited in the shadows by the railroad tracks… at the part of the city where the tracks turn sharply and the trains go slow.
When finally, the next train came screaming around through the curve, he emerged from the camouflage of glass and steel like a baby from the womb.
He ran to catch his destiny.
As he did, he smiled as he hadn’t smiled about anything in a long time. No one saw or knew.
Not there and not then.
But God saw… and He knew.
And as the train pulled out from the gravity of the poisoned place, the jester swung his legs luxuriously from the open door of the boxcar.
He stared at the opaque sky and sang new songs… making them up instantly in his head as he went along. He removed one of the sandwiches he had packed, and as he ate, the sky began to slowly clear.
One by one, and then in groups, the stars all came out. He knew the poison was gone and he realized that soon, the sun would come up and the air would be clear and it was all… too good.
The jester had tears in his eyes. He looked up at God and exclaimed gratefully in no uncertain terms….
“I like blue planet!”
And with that feeling saturating his whole being the jester drifted off to sleep…
smiling…
lulled by the music of the good sound…
And knowing inside…
that when he awoke… adventure was his! God watched him fall asleep.
After he did, he whispered to him in the old language…
“I like blue planet too, and I like you.” “The Best Part Of Waking Up”
The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.
Yeah, right.
I’m a musician. For my money, the best part of waking up is rolling over and going back to sleep. A close second might be Marilyn Monroe… in her prime… in a controversial position…. begging me to… well, you get the idea. But spare me the Mrs. Olson – Juan Valdez and his coffee donkey stuff, Okay?
Firkin commercials.
After twelve to fifteen hours of writing and playing piano all night, I pass out about seven… maybe eight… A Frikin M!
The phone rings at about eleven or so.
The party on the other end of the line brings me back out of my dreams, back from playing twister with Carole Lombard and Rita Hayworth in their prime and at the same time, on the beach… the nude beach… and the voice on the phone always says something like…
“Still sleeping, eh? Boy, you musicians sure have the life.”
I’m in a cold sweat, kind of like semi in shock. I try to respond to the loud, energetic voice. It takes me a couple of tries. My throat is still sleeping back on the dream beach. It’s a lot smarter than me.
Finally, the words creak out… three and a half octaves lower than my natural “awake” voice. ...
“Yeah, right.”
Of course, after we hang up, I can’t fall back asleep. Opposition scores first blood.
At this stage of the day (if you could call it that) I hate the sun. It is the “S” word.
For one thing, it’s so bright and cheerful.
For another thing… it’s up.
Man I need some serious coffee.
It’s summer. The windows were open all night. It so hot and smoggy out that my eyes are burning indoors. The cars and trucks are making a symphony of noise and pollution in the key of reality… answered by police and fire sirens left and right. It’s like the charge of the mother firkin light brigade.
The girl next door puts on her stereo. This morning’s selection is Michael Jackson… volume 1,000,082. Everything in my apartment is bouncing to the beat… including me. I bounce on over to the window using none of my own power. I’m powered by stereo…. Dude.
Looks like another sunny day… I firkin hate L.A.
I close the windows and the curtains. Activate “A firkin C.” I bounce into my bachelor type kitchen. I put on the bean (coffee). The girl next door… my very favorite human neighbor of all time in the universe, turns the music up. It’s at least twice as loud as before. I want to know where she got her speakers.
I feel like I’m gonna scream. I scream. Nobody hears me… the music’s too loud. I bounce into my bathroom to shave. For joy, for joy…
No hot water! I shave with cold water, bouncing with the stroke, never against it. I should get a gold firkin medal. I can smell the freshly brewed bean a callin’ me. I figure what the hell. I try to moonwalk into the kitchen. I have to settle for moon bouncing.
We bad.
As I reach for the coffee, it makes me feel good inside to know that it’s mountain grown… the richest kind.
Yeah, right.
Just pass me the mud so I can open my eyes enough to go get my shotgun and shoot the teenage menace next door with the industrial strength stereo of doom.

 

Poetic License To Kill:
Literary Stress In No Particular FormFace.

Sir Face.
Surface.
Surfer Ace.
On the surface, Ace was a surfer.
On the surf, “He was a face, sir.”
“Sir Face De Ace” and “Fleece du Lace” did meet amongst a “Coup de Grace,” a jolly case, of good cognac, inside that 2-tone Cadillac… a “Coupe de Ville” in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.
“What a place for one to taste mace in the face” thought Ace. “It’s a total waste of face space!”
On the surface, Sir Face de Ace did see all that case, and avoided behavior so base to this place as all that haste. He adhered to proper taste and joined the race… the “Race de Rat,” with legendary case and hat, thinking that somewhere along the chase, maybe he would set the pace and thereby get to share a space with “Fleece du Lace,” from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.
But he lived far, far away… in a place called L.A., so, she said:
“You.”
“Phone.”
“You phone!”
“Phone, you phony!”
“Euphony.”
“You phony ass, phone us!”
Euphonious… is what it be, harmonious, although that melody, does play most erroneously…. A melody that’s staring at me through its prison bars… sipping cognac… from its prison bars. Or was it the prison bar?
“Poor us…. Oh, poor, poor us.”
I’m as porous as a porpoise and all I can say is “poor us.”
“Pour us another cognac, Kojak. It cold to be poor us dere Kingfish, especially in dis here prison bar. What all dese porpoises be doin in here anyway?
One thing about a prison bar… you don’t have to worry about having enough regulars… but it’s tough to meet a “nice” girl dere.
Applause. Applause.
“Thank you, thank you!... but seriously ladies and gentlemen… Fond du Lac… it’s a great town… C’est bon… innnnnnn…Wisconsin!”
When in Wisconsin, don’t be surprised if you wonder… what the hell am I doing here in Fond du Lac? Was it a bad year? No, it was a badger! Oh, now I get it…. Bad-ger! ……. That’s awful.
“Doctor Casey… Paging Doctor Casey… Pick up the white courtesy phone… Doctor Casey, white courtesy phone please.”
Pause.
“This is Dr. Casey.”
“Hello, Dr. Casey? This is Dr. Daddio.”
“Hey. What is it Doctor D?”
“It’s a trip Holmes…. but it’s cool.”
“Talk to me Daddio.”
“Well Doc, it’s my passion…. She’s a killin’ me. What can I do?”
“You got a girlfriend?”
“Yeah… Norma Lee.”
“Well, you got one now?”
“Whoaaaa Doc!... Stop… You’re killin’ me!”
A
Apt.
Apt. 2B.
Apt to be…
Apartment 2B, hopefully, is apt to be.
“2B? Or to be?” is apt to be the question.
“Apt to be apart, Norma Lee, unless we get together, or Apt. 2B together, or, to be together, we could get an apartment, or I could get a place to see, or rather apartment 2C…. Wait! To be together, I could get apartment 2C, and you could get apartment 2B, to see, if we, could live together like folks who are normal. Normally, Norma Lee, I would say, to be, or 2B, or 2C, or to see, are just a few of the questions, but these are strange times, and I would hate to commit myself. In fact, these are more than strange times, these are strange lines… maybe I really should commit myself?”
“I know… you’ll do it for me.”