Currently Listening Highly Refined Pirates By Minus the Bear Absinthe Party At The Fly Honey Warehouse see related

Let the cover rotate 180 degrees east, back to

its pristine shelf condition, and the binding

will smooth out the creases itself.

Let the dog-ears unfurl, unfold:

Their monuments will not be missed, my dear;

after all, the weary dust travelers need

a place to settle, a cover to snuggle under.

And so do we, transients of life:

I choose the shore, as east as we can walk.

Why live here when we can sleep

among castles and cerulean skies?

Don’t fear the chilly evening wind;

the waves will blanket us and

the pink Occident will kiss our heads goodnight.

Let the mattress and pillows stay

back, confined forever to four walls:

I’d sooner sink into the sand and

let it soil every garment that I own.

Let us face each other and time our breaths

with the whitecap’s break, Nature’s clock.

I know that we’ve always been promised

to find meaning within the words of

those stale old books and monotonous

lectures, all explaining what we’ll

never be, but I’m convinced they’re wrong.

They give life a clearly defined dictation,

but I know that this is living:

The gulls, the shells, the sights and smells…

And us, awaiting the alarm to rise and allow

our wandering, with grain between our toes

that twinkles on our outstretched legs.

The sun’s new birth begets an

infinity of chances for life’s beauty

to catch our senses. Let us not miss it.

Good morning.

Currently Listening The Things We Carry By Have Heart Something More Than Ink see related

            The scent of peppermint cappuccino hit his nose as soon as he walked through the door; it was the brew of the day at the small local coffee shop. Boris hates peppermint cappuccino, and he made that well known to Norman. Although he had a slight fancy for peppermint cappuccino, especially around the holidays, Norman just smiled and nodded his head.

            The two elderly men made their way past the Christmas decorations and up to the counter. Boris made it in exactly seven long strides—Norman had to push his walker inch by inch, carefully shuffling his slipper-covered feet over the hodgepodge tile on the floor. Boris hated the tile, too.

            “Norm, I would like to get my coffee sometime before I die, so it would help if you walked a little faster.”

            After he said this, the sitting patrons of the shop looked at Boris with eyes full of disgust. He didn’t take notice, and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared; they were all a bunch of rich kids who didn’t know what his life had been, who didn’t know how impatient and impersonal four months in a muddy trench can make a man.

            Norman glided a few more inches and then stopped before he said, “Oh don’t mind him, he’s just a grumpy old dingbat!” He chuckled and flashed his warm smile, but everyone had already gone back to their prior concentration. Boris hates it when people ignore Norman, and he made a loud snort to prove it.

            The line was a few customers deep, and so the old friends waited in it for quite some time.

            Boris finally shifted his weight on to his left leg, the more sturdy, and said rather loudly, “You know what I hate? This new Starbucks generation with their non-fat caramel cappa-frappa-lappa-cino, iced, whipped cream, grande, to go, all that bullshit. What ever happened to just getting a cup of coffee?” Again, the patrons glared at him.

            “You need to relax, Boris. You’re embarrassing yourself! This is what the kids like nowadays… Maybe you should try some.” He whispered close to Boris’ good ear. He then slowly turned a full circle as he grinned and shrugged his shoulders, letting the people know that Boris’ case is hopeless. No one noticed.

            Boris’ cheeks turned fiery red, but not the jolly kind. He carefully annunciated each syllable as he said in a medium tone, “Don’t you tell me to goddamn relax. We have been standing in this line for over five minutes, it smells like hell in here, and these kids are all arrogant assholes.”

Just as he finished, the clerk asked, “What would you like today, Boris?”

 “Two black coffees.” He said as hastily laid his fist on the counter. The clerk had it prepared already.

            They took a seat and sat in silence for a few minutes. Boris broke it. “I’m sorry for being so ugly with you, just then.” His eyes were cast down into the swirling brown coffee. “Why aren’t you drinking your coffee?”

            “You know I don’t like coffee, Boris.” He said sweetly. “But it’s okay about what happened in line. You’re a good man, you just need to relax and enjoy all of this wonderful stuff around us.” Norman was eighty-two years old, but when he smiled, all Boris could see was the joy of a young man of nineteen.

            “You’re right.” Boris acknowledged, his heart opened once again by his best friend. Norman had a way of doing that to him. They sat for a little longer while Boris finished his coffee, but then he got up, put on his coat, and prepared to face the December snowstorm. “See you here, same time tomorrow?”

            “Of course.” Norman sat comfortably with his legs crossed, prepared to spend the next hour soaking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the brightly lit coffee shop.

            Just before he stepped out the door and into the frozen torrent, Boris turned and smiled. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” The door swung gently shut as his right leg trailed out.

            And he did make it up to him. That very night, he drove straight to Springdale Cemetery. He plodded through the deep snow with the usual eleven strides, got down on his knees, and brushed the frost off of the gravestone.

Norman Fallon. 1925 – 1944.

His body was never found, but Boris remembered his best friend Norman nonetheless.

Currently Listening Forty Hour Train Back to Penn By The Movielife face or kneecaps see related

            “These people were here long before you. My tribe, the Peoria, was nourishing the cornfields with their flesh centuries before your ancestors flocked to this beautiful soil. But you desecrated it. Every day you go to your fuckin’ sixth grade class and stare glassy-eyed at the bright American flag hanging so gallantly. You hold your little white hands over your little hearts and pledge allegiance to your nation, and then you open your social studies book and learn about the great American history: Washington rowing across the Potomac, oh so brave; Jefferson’s purchase and the doubling of your land; a peaceful meal with the savages, all to give thanks for a plentiful harvest after a single harsh winter. Such a deep and rich history, such hardship your few generations have had to overcome…
            “So be thankful. Kiss your flag and be thankful that your history isn’t endangered. Be thankful that you’re not alone; that you haven’t been turned into a goddamn casino-staff mascot novelty; that your nation isn’t strapped to a hospital bed, kept alive yet comatose by a government-aid tube situated carefully in its severed throat.”

 That is what I wish I could say to those field-trip kids. My name is Joseph Nootau, and I am classified as a Native American of the Peoria tribe. I classify myself as nothing. My people are dead, our language is dead, and if I made it so that there was no more me to force facts and dances on these kids, my people would never have even existed. It’s not like you care.
              The land used to be ours. It was something that we cherished and protected. But for now, this one room apartment is all I can call my own, this apartment and the food stamps I used to buy this handle of whiskey.

 Sometimes, I pinch my skin and wonder why it stays so dark—as if blushing under an August great plains sun—when I feel so bloodless and cold below a four-walled plaster sky.