wings

Throw them back at me again
Sidelong glances
Slithery smiles
Your blue.

Throw me into yesterday
When time
Seemingly still
Fled by on quiet wings
Spun from the dreams
That we whispered to each other

poetry from 1984

"Two Lines or More"

It's me now, my neurosis
My doubts, I don't have any
Chopin is no doubt
The day was okay
The junk and the lines
And Marley and spliff
And lovers dedications
And what's in my head and nose and throat
And the soliloquy
And spiders
And dogs
And scorpios on bicycles
And of glowing lanterns
And tortured lives
And grinding jaws
And Bolero twice
Because of the cultural implications
And the lightning left
And the snow in March
And the junk in March
And the tryst and the travesty
And the lie
And the near forgotten and abandoned
Make it true
Save the Scorpio
But don't self sacrifice
Sleep

*****

He's the poet who knows it
Grooving up downtown bus stops at night
He'a a loser and he shows it
Chasing blue skies out of sight

Walking down side streets all day
Forgetting the way it used to be
Breezing up highways and byways
Always wanted to see free

Feel like a kite in the sky in the rain
Seeing the others just come and go
Technically denying the pain
Solving it all with some blow.

"I miss my comic books. I left the last of them behind the last time I ran away."

"Ran away? From what?"

"From life."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Not so good. The next day, when I woke up in my new apartment, a few blocks away. There life was. Lying there in bed with me. Facing me with that inane grin on his face. 'Mornin' sunshine!' he exclaims to me, 'What are we going to do today?' he asks. I say, 'Why are you asking me for? You're life, motherfucker. You ought to know.' Life was like that. Never even missed a step. Just kept right up with me. That's how I ended up here.

happy new year

"I hate dieting. It's so hard. I really resent people who do not diet. Either because they don't care how they look or because they have great genes and are fabulous and don't need to diet."

"What?"

"I hate dieting. It's so hard. I really resent people who do not diet. Either because they don't care how they look or because they have great genes and are fabulous and don't need to diet."

"Oh my god."

"I know. Right? I used to be really beautiful without exerting any effort at all. I just woke up and was fabulous."

"What happened?"

"Fuck you. you're supposed to say, 'no dear, you're still fabulous' and I'm supposed to say shucks and blush. Then you buy me a drink and we talk and talk and eventually go home together and you love my apartment and my dog and my papier mache curiosities and we have great sex and then, tomorrow morning I make a gourmet breakfast and we talk some more and you can't stop thinking about me for weeks and weeks and when you finally call me, one month later, I can't remember who you are."

"Then I remind you and you lean against the wall and twirl the phone cord on your fingers and giggle a little.

"What's a phone cord?"

"Never mind."

"So...do I look fabulous?"

"You're okay. I guess."

"Hmm."

"No, you're okay. Buy you a drink?"

"I really was once beautiful."

"I'm sure you were. Drink?"

"I'll have a gin and white wine."

"Seriously?"

"A gin and white wine for the once beautiful, once fabolous, once elegant and once young me.

"You mean fabulous?"

"What did I say?"

"Fabolous."

"Then that's what I meant. I meant it with a Spanish flair. It's not nice to point out mispronunciations. Order the drink."

"I already did."

"How dare you refer to me as "okay".

"I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. When are we going home?"

"I haven't even gotten your name yet."

"I'm not sure that's gammatically sound, what you just said."

"How would you correct it?"

"Oh god, I haven't the faintest idea."

"Well anyway. I don't know your name."

"A man once shoved a swizzle stick up into my penis."

"I'm sorry. What?"

"A man once shoved a swizzle stick up into my penis."

"What's a swizzle stick?"

"Never mind."

"You can't do that. I think I know what that is. Is that what people stirred cocktails with in the olden days?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What the fuck? You brought it up. It's one of those novelty drink stirring things isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Why in the hell would you let somebody stick something like that up your dick?"

"Don't judge me. You don't even know my name."

"Wow. Dude."

"I know."

"So how'd it happen?"

"I'm not really sure. I was asleep. I was having this dream. Like, you know, when you have this dream you gotta piss real bad? And, finally, you wake up and you've really got to piss? Well, I was having this dream that somebody was shoving a swizzle stick up into my penis and, finally, I woke up, and somebody was shoving a swizzle stick up into my penis."

"Holy shit!"

"I know. Right?"

"Then what happened?"

"I pulled it out."

"And then?"

"I fell back asleep and started having the exact same dream. I woke up and, sure enough, the dude is doing it again. So, I yanked it out and yelled at him. Asked him what the fuck he was doing shoving a swizzle stick up into my penis. Oh god, it was one of those long, square shaped ones with a chesspiece on the top, green plastic. So tacky"

"Oh my god! Holy shit! What did the dude say?"

"He said something about I shouldn't have passed out and how he needed me to fuck him right then or I needed to leave and I told him I couldn't get my dick hard and I was gonna call up the cops or burn his drapes unless he drove me home and where the hell were my fucking clothes. Well he handed me some old torn panty hose and a clutch purse. I looked at them and said what the fuck is this and he told me that's how he'd picked me up. It was then that I realized I had no idea how I'd come to be there and that I'd never lain eyes on this man before in my memory. Turns out, he had picked me up at this very bar. Bought me several drinks, took me home and shoved a swizzle stick up into my penis."

"Wow."

"I looked into the clutch and found my driver license and house key and asked him if I had shoes. He informed me I did not. He grudgingly drove me from the west side of town to my house. Once in the car, of course, I was very polite and quiet. I did not want to be put out on highway 59 with nothing but a torn pair of panty hose and a clutch purse. But when we neared my house I asked him why he did it. He told me I was making a big deal out of it, that I should just chill, that I was being a pussy. I told him that it really hurt and he shouldn't have done it without asking first. He was so completely an asshole about the whole thing. When we stopped in front of my house, I thanked him for the ride, hit him on his right cheekbone as hard as I could with my left fist, grabbed my clutch purse and got out of the car."

"Well, it's been nice talking to you. Good luck with your diet."

"Thanks for the drink."

"Don't mention it."

"Still want to know my name?"

"Not really."

"Well, thanks for the drink anyways."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go sit over there for a while now."

summer 1964

"Mahm, why is the jello shaking?"

"Eett iss askaered."

"Why is it scared Mahm?"

"Eett iss askaered bekass eett noes you are goingg to eat eett. Efery time you putt een your spoon too eett, eett iss like eett hass been gettingg stabbed wis a shovel."






"Feennish your chello."

fuck you larry king

So we just had a hurricane.

I got my lights back on day before yesterday.

I was watching larry king last night.

Anderson Cooper comes on to do a promo for his show, which will follow larry king.

Anderson Cooper shows the iconic video from hurricane Ike, of the lone house on Bolivar, surrounded by the debris of nearly every other home on the peninsula. Anderson Cooper says something about how he will have an interview with the owner of that home coming up next.

And larry king, larry king, that fucking piece of shit lizard faced talking colostomy bag, larry fucking king cackles and says, "Ha ha, that guy sure doesn't have any neighbors, haha." In a tone, like, you know, life is way better without neighbors. All private beach and shit. Right?

No, larry king, you fucking asshole moron piece of shit, that guy sure does not have any neighbors. You know why larry king? Because a fucking hurricane came by and blew all the neighbors homes and belongings away. You fucking dirtbag serial trophy wife fucker. You fucking stinking colostomy bag of a shit hole ( I know I used the colostomy bag comparison earlier in the post, but I really, really think he's just a thin membrane of dried mucosa completely filled to bursting with mossy, liquid shit).

It's not funny, larry king, you fucking Alzheimer poster boy. People lost everything they owned and some lost their lives. And you sit there in your Depends undergarment, stinking up a studio with your rancid breath and laugh about how some guy now has the beach all to himself. haha

I have friends who had homes there. That was a community. And it was wiped out. And you laughed about how some lucky guy had no more neighbors.

Fuck you larry king.

Fuck you larry king

Fuck you larry king.

And fuck you cnn for keeping this brainless lizard man, who doesn't even know who his guests are any more, on the air.

Oh yeah, fuck you larry king.

With all due respect and from Uncle Walt.

ps. fuck you larry king.

Absent friends

He rolled past the bar, not looking sidelong into the picture window but concentrating self conciously straight ahead. He turned right two blocks past and came back around the bar again about two minutes later. Still rolling past, not looking sidelong into the picture window but concentrating self conciously straight ahead.

He had been doing this for about two hours, fifty-five trips around before he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine.

I had been sitting on the other side of the picture window, drinking Budweiser and smoking Marlbros and looking out the picture window at the man driving by in the dark green 1964 International pick up truck. Waiting for him to park the goddam truck. And after he parked the truck, waiting for him to get his ass in the bar.

Register sat in his truck and lit a joint and smoked it slowly and thoughtfully. Taking deep hits and then sucking in the wisps that emanated from the lit end. When he was done he flung the fat roach out of the window and onto the parking lot. He stumbled out of the truck and into the bar.

I saw him approach the door from the picture window. He went to the far end of the bar, where there were no people and sat. I picked up my cigarettes and beer and joined him.

"So what's up?" I asked.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, "I got busy doing some errands and couldn't make it over on time. Sorry."

"It's no big deal, what'd you want to meet me for?"

"You want a bump?"

"Sure."

He handed me a baggie with about a half ounce of coke in it and his keys. I went into the bathroom and didn't take too much. He was testing me.

When I came back out and handed back the baggie he looked closely at it and put it back into his pocket.

"Come up to the office with me." he said.

I followed him out the back door, across the patio and into the out building that constituted the office. The owner of the bar was inside at his desk. Across the room from him was a very cowed looking young man on a couch. I recognized the guy as someone I had gone to middle school with.

Register looked at the owner and asked, "get anything out of him?"

The owner just shook his head.

Register looked at me for a second then he looked at the cowed young man, "I've got to be out of town for three days," he pointed at me, "you pay this man three hundred dollars today, three hundred dollars tomorrow, and three hundred dollars the day after tomorrow or he will kick your fucking ass." He said it very quietly and very pleasantly and the cowed young man on the couch began to cry.

He looked at me and said, "You pay," he pointed at the owner, "this man six hundred dollars by day after tomorrow or I will kick your ass." The cowed young man on the couch began to sob.

I nodded my head and Register and I walked back into the bar.

"You want a shot?"

"Sure thing man"

"You don't mind that I did that do you? That I put you on the spot like that?"

"No. Do I really have to shake this guy down? And pay up?"

"Hell yes you do."

"Can I have another bump?"

"Sure."

I did another. We sat in the near deserted bar and didn't talk for a while.

"Hey Register. How come you was riding around the block out there for two hours?"

"I was listening to my Allman Brothers tape. You know, I listen to those guys and I just get lost in the music and lose track of time."

"Two hours?"

"You want a shot?"

"Sure."

"Hey bartender, round of shots."

The bartender sauntered over. "What you want honey?"

Ken looked at me, "Cuervo." I said.

"Two Cuervos and Schnapps for everybody else."

"Can I have one too?" the bartender asked.

"I said everybody didn't I?"

"I's just making sure honey."

We did shots. Then we just sat not talking just drinking our drinks and smoking our cigarettes and looking toward the picture window.

cognac

I walked through rooms toward the exit. Through rooms which seemed to be crying, "Stay! Live here! We need living and pulses and hearts!"

I just left anyway. Feeling I had left the rooms bereft and lonely.

I drove the van down highway 288 and stopped at the liquor store just past the city limits. I bought a bottle of cognac because the glamorous couple on some soap opera had spoken of drinking cognac in front of a fire and it seemed romantic.

The fat, red-haired lady behind the counter glowered at me through wisps of smoke emanating from the cigarette hanging between her chapped lips.

I took my package back to the van and began driving toward the beach. It seemed as if I bought the bottle in summer and arrived at the water in the winter. Funny how you remember things.

The beach was cold and deserted. Deserted except for trash and seaweed. The sky was grey and full of bluster. The wind, coming from the north, blew sand from the dunes against my back as I sat southward.

I watched the waves roll and crash, their crests high and foamy from the wind. The sand was packed hard and was cold and damp. Pretty soon my ass was wet.

I opened the bottle of cognac and took a sip from the bottle. I'd never had cognac. I didn't much care for it.

I wondered if Ed had ever had cognac. I couldn't ask anymore.

I wished I had bought a back up six pack in case the cognac didn't work out.

Ah what the hell. I drank some more. Didn't seem as bad the second time.

I looked out at the Gulf of Mexico. By the sixth sip or so I thought maybe if I could swim out to the Yucatan I could kick this thing that seemed to have hold of me. But nobody could swim from Freeport to the Yucatan.

I gave up on the cognac and got back into the van. There was a 7-11 out by the highway. I stopped in and bought a six pack of Miller High Life. I drank it on the way back home.

I returned to the rooms. They didn't seem too happy to see me. I certainly wasn't happy to see them.

But they were mine. A little spot of mine. When I left them they seemed to want me to stay, when I stayed they seemed indifferent.When I was drunk I shouted at the walls. When I was sober I just looked at them and waited.

I don't know what I was waiting for. It never arrived in a package or in the form of a person.

"You just look around I guess, that's prolly how you find it." he used to tell me. "You can't just sit around and wait for something to happen, you gotta go out and look for it. Even if you don't know what it is, or where it is. Just keep your eyes open and start looking."

I'm still looking.

Maybe in a stolen car in a foreign country under an assumed name.

shopping 1

Take a trip to the loserama.

Loser.

It's the only place to find pants that fit you.

I could feel her going through my pockets as I lay, half asleep, on the back porch. I swung hard and connected with her jaw to send her reeling. She stumbled and teetered off the edge of the porch and into the wheelbarrow.

"You son of a bitch!" she shreiked. "You motherfucking son of a bitch!"

"Why were you going through my pockets?" I yelled back.

The night was clear and cold. The stars were hard and close. She clattered out of the wheelbarrow to a horrible din that brought on the lights in the alley and softened the hateful eerie starlight.

"I wanted a fucking cigarette! You hit me you son of a bitch!"

"Where's my wallet?"

"I was gonna get some money out of it to go get some cigarettes."

"Where's my cigarettes?"

"I don't got your fucking cigarettes you motherfucker. Fuck you."

"Can I have one please?"

"Well, okay. But these ain't yours. These are some I found in my jacket."

She handed me a cigarette and sat next to me as I lit it and then one for her.

"You really clocked me pretty good."

"I was awake."

" I really thought you were asleep.You were snoring pretty loud."

"Playing possum. Can I have my wallet back?"

She handed me my wallet and we smoked. The lights in the alley twinkled off as the neighbors realized the commotion was over. The starlight hardened again.

I thumped away my butt and walked off the porch and into the night. She made no attempt to follow. Didn't even say a word.

I fished the bottle out of the culvert at the end of the driveway and took two hard swigs before taking off across the pastures toward the river.

dreams 1

I had this dream that I was in this play. The play got such good notices that the Queen of England came to see it.

After the performance that she saw, she came up to me and told me it was the best performance she had ever seen.

I said, "Aw, thank you, your Majesty."

She said, "You must call me Betsy."

I said, "Thank you Betsy."

She said, "You must come over to my place and have lunch sometimes. We'll have filet mignon." then she reached into her purse and pulled out a gold airline ticket. She said, "This is good anytime for British airways, just call first. " And then she handed me the airline ticket. "How's Tuesday?" She asked.

I told her that would be fine. Then we shook hands.

Okay.

It was a daydream.

wolves

Janet and Mommagirl drove past the steaming chemical plants, careening down the wet highway at breakneck speed. The plants always blew out extra steam during the rains. People always wondered why that seemed to be.

They careened, veered, swerved, lurched and reeled in the ancient Galaxy 500 over puddles and past ditches and down roads on which the paving was more hoped for than found.

Janet bracing herself on the dashboard at all times. Mommagirl holding the steering wheel at ten and two, elbows high.

They pulled into the Woolworths parking lot at five 'till nine. "They have to let us in because it ain't closin' time yet." Mommagirl insisted.

Janet just glared at her as she heaved herself out the passenger door. Janet did not usually speak. Janet looked at her feet mostly, and smoked Newports. And glared at Mommagirl and Tina Louise.

But now she spoke. "Why we gotta go to the Woolsworth in the middle of the goddammed night in the goddam rain, Mommagirl?"

Mommagirl walked around the front of the car and back handed Janet across the mouth just as she stood up from the seat balancing her heft on the door frame, making the car tilt a bit starboard. "Don't you ever take the name of the lord in vain in my goddammed Ford little missy!"

"I could call child protective services on you!" Janet shrieked.

"You're thirty-two years old Janet. Child protective services don't give a shit about you."

"Well, there's some protective agency that helps people who have to live with their parents and then their parents slap them around."

"Yeah Janet it's called the poh-leece. You gonna call the poh-leece on your momma and say she assaulted you? You gonna have me arrested Janet?"

"I jus' might, you keep on slappin' me around like that. I just might."

"Shut the hell up Janet. We gonna miss the Woolsworth. Now move your ass in the store before they lock the doors."

Janet shut up and glared at the back of Mommagirls head. She lit a cigarette and followed the old fat woman inside.

"I want to get Tina Louie something nice. She's getting her 90 day chip tonight at the alcoholics meeting and I want to get her something nice. Oh, Janet, look at that sweatshirt! You think she'd like it?"

"I thought you said something nice."

"Well, it is nice. It's got all them flowers and beads on it. I think it's pretty."

"I don't know why we got to get her something nice just for being a drunk."

"It's not for being a drunk, goddammit, Janet. It's for getting sober."

"She had to be a drunk before she had to get sober. That's all I'm saying. Now she's sober and working like millions of people do everyday all their lives, but since she's been doing it for three months, we gotta go down to the Woolsworth in the middle of the night in the rain to get her a goddam present."

"What I tell you about taking the lords name in vain missy?"

"You told me not to do it in your goddam Ford."

"You sure you hate the sweatshirt?"

"I don't give a shit about the sweatshirt"

"Well, maybe you should start giving a shit, Janet."

"Maybe I should Mommagirl. But I don't."

Mommagirl bought the sweatshirt. They drove home in silence. Going home much more slowly on the slick roads. Janet staring at her feet and chain smoking in the passenger seat and Mommagirl holding the wheel at ten and two, elbows high.

Over the half paved roads and onto the highway, past the steaming chemical plants. "You think that's really just steam?" Janet asked.

"What else could it be?"

"Chemicals. Poison. God."

"Shut the hell up Janet."

Janet lit another cigarette.

They pulled up into the driveway. They ran across the rain spattered front yard into the front door. Mommagirl put the sweatshirt into a nice box for Tina Louise and started dinner.

Janet rummaged around some drawers in the den and found some old construction paper and colored pencils and sat with them at the kitchen table.

"What are you doing Janet?"

"I'm making a card for Tina Louise."

"Well that's real sweet of you, Janet. I'm gonna go pick her up from her meeting in a few minutes. You want to go with me?"

"No." She began drawing flowers on the paper.

Dinner prepared, Mommagirl kissed Janet on the head, "I think it's sweet, you making your sister a card. She's trying real hard."

"I know Mommagirl."

Mommagirl went back out into the rain, out to the Galaxy 500 to drive across Clute to get her youngest daughter, the one they always thought was the smart one, and haul her back from her court-appointed alcoholics anonymous meeting.

After the car was out of the driveway and safely down the road, Janet finished her card. The inside was all flowers and bees and birds. She folded it and on the front she wrote, "Little sister, I do give a shit. Love Janet."

She went and found the box Mommagirl had put the sweatshirt in. She taped the card to the top of the box. Then she took off the top of the box and set the box on the floor. She took off all her clothes and shit into the box. She put the top back on the box, put the box back where Mommagirl had left it, picked up her clothes, and went to bed.

Matagorda 1965

They did this to me every fucking Easter until the old man died.

Goat Ropers Make Better Lovers

They were driving past the feed store on highway 35 when they decided they could live without the kids. And they figured, what with Charlie being 16 and able to work and Michael not far behind, the kids would be just fine too.

So they drove out to the county line and bought some more Gordons vodka and all the "Goat Ropers Make Better Lovers" and "I'd Rather Be a Roper Than a Doper" bumper stickers the liquor store had in stock and plastered them all over their Royal Dodge Monaco. Plastered them onto the trunk and the hood, the doors and side panels and fenders and windows. Even some on the windshield. Drove off through Matagorda county and toward Mexico when last seen.

I saw them at a Jack in the Box in Brownsville just by chance. They didn't recognize me at all. She came up to me and asked me if I'd had an accident outside her house once and come to her door and asked to use the sink to wash the blood from my face. I told her, "No ma'am, I grew up with your young 'uns. Y'all lived acros the alley from us, behind old man Bailey's."

She drew back and her friendly face changed and she said, "I ain't knowing no old man Bailey and I ain't got no kids."

But I knew it was her. I remembered her letting me into the living room lots of times. Asking me if I wanted a fried egg sandwich

Months later I asked Charlie why Michael didn't talk any more. Charlie told me he stopped talking when their parents left. He told me all about them leaving a note telling him to take care of everybody and make sure the youger ones stayed out of trouble.

I told him I had seen them in Brownsville. I told him how crazy his mom had acted. And about all the bumper stickers on the car.

Charlie didn't seem too mad about it. I suppose he was maybe too simple minded to linger too much in thought on the philosophical and psychological issues regarding parents abandoning a whole passel of kids to the charge of a sweet but stupid teenager.

Michael was not simple. He had been a sweet boy who always smiled and chattered beautifully the beautiful chatter of childhood bliss. A joy to be near and a joy to think of. He could never get his head around the thought that they had left him. Had left all of them.

He never spoke again. He never smiled. He followed Charlie around sometimes; and stayed on the periphery of any crowd. He threw rocks.

He walked highways late at night and looked for the chocolate brown Royal Dodge Monaco. He never saw it.

One night, near the feed store on highway 35, a truck driver went off the road and ran him over and kept going. The driver was never found. Neither were the parents.

yep, it's me

One of my favorite things is schadenfreude.

this old house

She had lived in one of those big houses on the bayou when her parents were still together so she knew the road well enough to guide me through with my headlights off and just the moon for light.

We found a spot without stars over it and it was cold and she hated it. We kept driving by her old house. Where she was happy once but now going near it brought her to hysterics. We would go away for a while but we kept coming back. She liked crying and I guess the crying she did for that house was about the best crying she got these days.

She said it made her feel good for me to come out there too and be part of this ritual. I was always worried that the people who now inhabited the house would come outside and see to the car, idling outside, with the wailing woman inside.

Sometimes, after we had been doing this for a few months, I would go home to her apartment with her and just hold her. She would always ask me not to try to make any moves on her because she was vulnerable and that it would be just rotten of me to pull something like that on someone so vulnerable.

I would just lay next to her and hold her and stroke her hair until she was asleep. It never took long.

One night, I told her I didn't want to drive by her old house and watch her cry anymore. She cried about that for a little while but I just sat in the drivers seat and looked straight ahead. Wouldn't put in drive. Wouldn't go.

She stopped crying after a while and asked me what I wanted to do.

It was warm now and I wanted to be under warm stars in warm wind that smelled like barnicles and spilled oil and sea gulls. I wanted to be near the river where I had been happy once.

Near the river where we could drink beer and smoke cigarettes and watch the water in the dying light.

Near the river where we could talk about ourselves and the river and the stars and the smell of oil. Or is it diesel?

Near the river where we could sing down by the river, down by the river.

We finished a twelve pack. Looking at the water throught the dying of the light and it's burial into the pitch. Side by side, her head on my shoulder. "You're sure a sweet guy."

"Am I?"

"You sure are," her voice had taken on a husky, tumescent quality. Her hand ran toward my crotch.

I started crying.

She tried to get my interest but I just stared forward. Stared at the river and cried.

After a few minutes she saw the tears and stopped what she was doing with her hands.

We looked at each other right in the eyes for a few minutes. My tears rolling down my cheeks.

"You want to go drive by my old house?" she asked me.

I nodded in assent.

When I told her I was gay, after we had cried in the car in front of her old house for about two hours, she took my hand and kissed it.

"Thank god!"

She had really been worried about my ability to restrain myself around her.

Marys. June 1988

I watched him sitting at the dark corner of the bar. Away from the jukebox and the bathrooms. In an area people seldom walked by.

I was nodding. Waiting for a connection. Everybody was nodding. Nodding off. Nodding at one another. Nodding at invisible demons. We were all waiting too. I had the luxury of knowing what I was waiting for. Not everybody in this bar at this time of night had that luxury.

I watched him sitting at the dark corner of the bar. Occasionally, when someone left the bar, he would dart out of the dark corner and pour the dregs of the abandoned glass into his maw. Then he would retreat back to his corner and gnaw on cocktail napkins.

God I wanted to go home. God I wanted a fix. God I wanted to stop watching this little rat faced man drinking the dregs of the glasses of strangers and eating cocktail napkins.

I could not. Not one of these things was possible at this moment in time. I couldn't have my fix without I connected.

I could not connect if I left the bar.

If I was at the bar the little ratfaced man in the dark corner drinking the dregs of the glasses of strangers and eating cocktail napkins held me transfixed.

My heart began to swell. My hands began to sweat. I teared up. Why was he eating the cocktail napkins?. Was he hungry? I pondered, for a while, what to do.

I sent a beer over to him. The bartender looked at me like I was crazy. I sent the guy a Budweiser.

When the bartender set the bottle in front of the rat faced man he asked him who sent it. The bartender pointed to me. The rat faced man looked over and raised the bottle to me. I raised mine to him. We both nodded.

He started to get up and walk over to me. To talk. There were about ten of us in that bar and we were all sitting apart. Nodding. In our own little worlds. Sitting apart and not talking to each other. Not being people. Just professional drunks. (That's why we go there.) He was going to connect.

I panicked. I had teared up and I was kind of enjoying the melancholy.

He just walked past me and into the bathroom.

Never even looked at me.

Perfect.

diet coke kills (a very short play)

Diet Coke Kills


Characters:

Zack
Jeff
Tom
Norman

Set:

A living room


(Lights up Zack sitting on couch watching television. Jeff enters.)

Zack

What are you doing home so early?

Jeff

What are you doing home at all?

Zack

Wigs on Fire fundraiser tonight. I needed to rest. I called in sick.

Jeff

You called in sick from your job to rest up for a party?

Zack

Priorities…I’m a host, girl!

Jeff

But Nedra!

Zack

Betsy!

Jeff

Don’t call me girl names!

Zack

You started it! Why are you home so early?

Jeff

To pack. I’m going hunting with my dad this week-end.

Zack

You’re not going to the fundraiser?

Jeff

Priorities.

Zack

But our special is black Russians; served out of a toilet. You’d rather kill Bambi?

Jeff

I’d rather kill something.

Zack

How does a vegan hunt?

Jeff

I go hunting to spend time with my dad. Not all gay men hate their fathers.

Zack

Blah blah blah. The girls are coming over to get ready. When are you leaving?

Jeff

Right now. My Dad’s waiting outside in the truck.

Zack

Where are you going?

Jeff (as he’s exiting to his room)

Out to the ranch in south Texas.

Zack

Oh. Ooo, look for some mushrooms while you’re out there.

(Doorbell rings. Zack answers door. Norman and Tom enter with full face, carrying bags full of drag.)

Zack

Jane! Marilyn! Did you ride the bus like that?

Norman

Yes. Why do you ask?

Zack

No reason. You guys doing a number tonight?

Norman

We’re not doing Jane and Marilyn this year. I’m sick of them. We’re going to be Diet coke girls.

Tom (to Zack)

Got any scotch girl?

Zack

(To Tom) Kitchen. (to Norman) Diet coke girls?

Tom

Got any ice girl?

Zack

(To Tom) Freezer. (to Norman) Diet coke girls? What the fuck is that?

Tom

Gotta joint girl?

Zack

Cigarette box.

Tom

Good girl.

Norman

You know, two girls dressed as giant diet coke cans. I’ve got inflatable costumes.

Tom (who has made himself a drink and joined the others)

Gotta light girl? (Zack lights Toms joint)

Zack

What kind of girls dress as cans?

Norman

We’ll have beehives!

Tom

Beehives girl!

Zack

Beehives?

Norman

Hair Mary!!

Zack

Oh!

(Jeff re-enters carrying lot’s of guns.)

Jeff

Ladies.

Tom

Hey stud! Gonna go kill some meat with daddy?

Jeff

How did you know?

Tom

We saw him in his big, butch truck outside. He tried his best to ignore us.

Jeff

Oh god.

Norman

You scared him girl. Waving your arms in the air and pulling your shirt up and shit.

Tom

I just wanted some acknowledgement of recognition.

Norman

Oh he recognizes you alright. You set his house on fire.

Tom

That was an accident. No charges were ever filed.

Jeff

Well thanks a lot. I should have a very pleasant drive to Del Rio now.

Tom

Do I get a kiss goodbye?

Jeff

Fuck you.

Zack

How many guns do you need?

Jeff

All of them.

Tom

All those guns. Karma karma karma girl. You’ll probably get shot in the ass with one of those guns.


(Jeff just glares at Tom; says see ya later to the others and exits.)

Norman

You really impressed him that time.

Tom

Oh fuck you Norman.

Zack

Why are you and Jeff always at each others throats?

Norman

Tom has a crush on Jeff.

Tom

Shut up Norman.

Norman

You shut up. Tom has a crush on Jeff and has occasionally stalked him.

Tom

Shut up Norman.

Zack

I had no idea.

Tom

Shut up Zack.

Norman

Oh it’s all so sad and sordid.

Tom

Shut Norman. I have never stalked him. I sometimes checked up on him is all.

Norman (singing)

Tom is a stalker. Tom is a stalker.

Tom

Fuck off Norman! Jeff and I have a special relationship.

Norman

Oh please!

Tom

Well we did.

Norman

You sucking his limp dick while he’s passed drunk out is not having a relationship.

Tom

Sucking dick is sucking dick.

Norman

Jeff doesn’t even remember it Tom. And he acts like you make him kind of sick.

Tom

He’s just shy. He doesn’t like to display his tender side.

(Zack howls with laughter.)

Norman

It is funny in a sad pathetic way. Like gay pentecostals.

Tom

I love you too darlings.

Zack

It’s all becoming so clear to me now.

Tom

Please. Nothing is ever clear. Are you really wearing that?

Norm

Yeah, are you really wearing that? We gotta fix you girl.


Lights out.




Lights up:

(Jeff sits in the living room drinking a beer with all his hunting stuff around him. The phone is ringing. During the following conversation with his mom, the mom should be under a special somewhere off to the side. But she should be seen.)


Jeff

Hello.

Mom (Lights up on Mom.)

Hi honey.

Jeff

Hi Mom.


Mom

Honey what happened?

Jeff

Dad saw Tom and Norman in make-up in front of the house. It looked like it was going to be a long weekend. We turned around in Sugarland. What did he say?

Mom

He didn’t say anything. He just stormed into the den and made himself a drink. He’s pouting in front of the television right now. Oh well, I just wondered what happened. I’m sorry your weekend was ruined.

Jeff

That’s okay. He’ll get over it and there’ll be other weekends.

Mom

Well okay. I just wanted to find out what was going on. I’ll let you go. I love you.

Jeff

I love you too Mom. Bye-bye.

Mom

Bye-bye.

(Lights out on Mom. Jeff starts to carry things into his room. Not the guns. The phone rings again. Show this guy too in the same place as Mom before.)

Jeff

Hello

Trick (Jovially)

Fuck you!!

Jeff (laughing)

Fuck you!!

Trick (louder)

Fuck you!!

Jeff (louder)

Fuck you!!

Trick (louder)

Fuck you!!

Jeff

What’s going on man?

Trick

Why don’t you come over and fuck me?

Jeff

Why don’t you come to Zacks party with me?

Trick

I’ve got an eight ball.

Jeff

I’ll be right there.

Exits.

Lights out.

Lights up.

(Zack enters and passes out on the couch. After a couple of moments the phone rings.)

Zack

Hello. Jeff, what’s up? Oh. Well, why didn’t you come to the party? Oh. Really? Who with? Oh. Really? Really? Oh really? Oh you slut! What? The guns? Yeah, they’re here. Hey, you’re not supposed to leave them out. You fucker. Okay. Where do they go? Sure. I’ll take care of it. No problem. See ya later.
(Zack hangs up the phone and starts to grab the guns when someone begins pounding frantically on the door. It’s Norman and Tom screaming from offstage, “Hurry, hurry let us in.” Or something like that.)

Zack (opening door and seeing the bloodied pair. Who are both freaked out, Tom crying, sobbing, hysterical.)


Oh my god! What happened? (He ushers them in)

Norman

We got bashed.

Zack

I’ll get some towels. Get him on the couch. Are you okay?

Norman

I think so. He took some pretty good licks though.

(Zack exits. Norman tries to comfort Tom. Zack returns with some towels, first aid kit, bottle of scotch. Starts to clean them up.)

Zack

What happened?

Tom (screams)

They tried to fucking kill us!

Zack

What? Who tried to kill you?

Norman

We picked up a couple of guys.

Tom

They were so cute!

Norman

They wanted to go to Bell Park for some reason.

Tom

We went for some reason.

Norman

They totally surprised us. And our costumes allowed almost no range of motion for self defense

Tom

Our wigs! Our wigs! Those fuckers took our wigs! Why did they take our wigs? (begins to cry anew)

Norman

The important thing is that we’re okay.

Tom

Fuck you Norman.

Zack

How did you get away?

Norman

They started laughing at the way we were screaming and slapping. They let go of us and we started running and then they started laughing so hard at the way we ran that we just got away.

Tom

They’re still out there Norman. They followed us a long way. They could be out there right now!

Zack

Oh my god! Do you think they followed you here?

Norman

I don’t know. But I ain’t going back out there.

Zack

Of course not! You guys can stay here. I’m calling the police!

Tom

No! No my god you can’t get the police over here!

Zack

Why

Tom

We’re drunk! And we’re on drugs! And we’re fags in make-up! They’ll just run us in and we’ll get beat up again.

Zack

Oh bullshit! You’re just being paranoid! You’ve been assaulted! You need to at least file a report.

Norman

He’s right Zack. It’s happened to us before.

Tom

Norman, what if they did follow us here? (sees guns) Is Jeff here?

Zack

He came and went. I was just about to put those away.

Tom (grabs a gun)

Let’s go get those fuckers!

Zack

Tom! Put it down!

Norman

Tom! Put the gun down!

Tom

Those fuckers deserve to die!

Norman

Tom put the fucking gun down!!

(The sound of Jeff and his trick can be heard outside screaming “fuck you” at each other like they did before over the phone)

Tom

It’s them!

Zack

No! It’s Jeff!

(Door opens. Jeff is in doorway. Tom shoots. )

Lights out

Lights up three to five beats later

Tom (standing over Jeff)

I fucking told you so!!

Zack

What?

Tom

I told him he’d probably get killed by one of his own guns.

Norman

Well girl, what you actually said was that he’d probably get shot in the ass with one of his own guns.

Tom

Fuck you Norman.

The End

meus apology ut Sinatra the movie

The producers made me change the title...

paved 3a

Ain’t Maryanne stood just inside the yard. Gasping for breath, scarf gone, hair disheveled. She bent over, putting both hands on her knees and gulped in draught after draught of cold, dry air demanding, “Is that my cigarettes you assholes are smoking?”

“No, they’s Ed’s.” I told her.

“Goddammit! Deborah, I told you to bring me my cigarettes and call my sponsor. Did you call my god damn sponsor?”

“No Nanaw. I forgot.”

“Forgot my ass. Now get in there and get on the phone and call Harry! You want me to start drinking again?”

“No Nanaw.”

“Bring me my Marlboros first! And you, you little son of a bitch.”

“Don’t start with me Ain’t Maryanne. You think this has been a good day for me? Huh?" I wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at her. “You think I enjoyed sitting out there in the cold knowing he could go any minute? Drinking beer and thinking, ‘Oh shit, what if he has a fit or something’, you think I was having fun drinking to that?” I could feel her staring at me but I wouldn’t look. I just kept staring toward the river.

Deborah came out with Maryanne’s cigarettes and I shut up for a minute.

“Deborah, sweetie, why don’t you go in and pick out some records to play.” She said it in that high sing song voice a lot of people use when speaking to a retarded adult; a praxis which usually leaves all parties slightly embarrassed.

Deborah knew something was up. Offers like this didn’t come around often. She was to be allowed into the living room, amidst all the records with absolutely no adult supervision. This was big stuff man. On the other hand, Nanaw and Walter were definitely going to have at it and that would be fun to see. Ultimately, the realization that she would be able to take out the records and feel the grooves, all of them, unmolested and uninterrupted, won over the decision. She turned on her heel and was gone. You saw a flannel plaid shirttail flutter through the door and the same door slam and she was gone and we were completely out of her mind for as long as we chose to be.

“What are we gonna do now?”

“You’re gonna tell me what the hell you were doing taking that sick old man out in this cold weather. And getting him drunk! Jesus Christ you dumb ass. What in the hell were you thinking? I’ll tell you what you were thinking! You weren’t thinking at all! That’s what you were thinking. You goddam dumb ass. Do you know how much trouble you might be in? Huh? Do you? Jesus Christ!”

“I was thinking he was going to die any way so I thought I might as well do what ever he wanted. I was thinking that that’s what you’re supposed to do when people are dying. We’ve all known for months that this was going to happen. That he was going to die. Why are you getting pissed off at me because I went to the river with him and had a couple of beers? Huh? What if he’d died alone in that goddam stinking miserable trailer? Would that have been better? Huh? Jesus Christ!” I still couldn’t look at her. I knew I’d lose it if I did. “All we did was go two blocks away. All we did was sit there. That’s all we did. Just sat there. And he just died. He just lied down and died. I couldn’t stop it. I wouldn’t have if I could’ve either.”

“That’s hate full.”

“Is not. He was tired of being sick. He was ready to go. He talked about dying all the damn time. He was more than ready and he went. Poof! Gone! Can we please call somebody and get him picked up. We can’t leave him lay there.”

“I can’t figure you out boy.” She lit a cigarette.

“I’m thinking that’s a good thing.”

“Did he suffer?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to.”

“What’d he do?”

“What?”

“Like, did he have a fit or something?”

“No. I was afraid he might, but he just grabbed his chest and said something or other. And died. Would you please call somebody and get him picked up!” I got up and walked around to the back porch, still never looking at her, shouting, “Get him picked up goddammit! Get him picked up!”

“You don’t even remember his last words? ‘He said something or other’? You are a dumbass! Jesus Christ”

Then she finished her cigarette. Acknowledged the cold to herself and went in to call whomever one calls to pick up a corpse.