Alive

She walks slowly across the young man's room
She said I'm ready for you
Why can't I remember anything to this very day?
Except the look, the look
You know where
Now I can't see, I just stare
     --Pearl Jam, Alive

He went back in time.

Surprising, really.

If he had befriended a genie, played with some wishes, or if he took better notes during Star Trek, it might make at least a bit of sense. But no. Truth is, he didn’t know how he got there. Or exactly when. Maybe he was napping. Dreaming. But that tight blue carpet under his feet sure didn’t feel like a dream.

And there he was. His young self. Sitting on the bed across the room.

Was he reading? Pondering? Sulking?

Clearly, the boy didn’t feel eyes on him from across the room. That lamp didn’t carve away very many shadows.

But there the fuck he was.

Jesus.

Here was the proverbial moment. The thing people wished for. Here on a polished platter. That moment when he could take himself aside and speak the GREAT WISDOM. The LESSONS OF LIFE. He could tell himself what not to do, what mistakes to avoid, and what people he'd be better off not knowing. He could FIX THINGS.

But he didn’t move towards the boy. His heart just pounded. Fast.

Because there was no wisdom. There was nothing to say. What the fuck had he really learned anyway?

Boy, it's actually worse than you realize. Sorry. Have a nice day.

Face it. He couldn’t be a father to himself. Or a mentor. Or a friend.

He would just go back. Leave the kid to his own thoughts. Let him muck it up. But that damned genie wasn’t showing up. Or that Star Trek episode.

If he did have a wish or two, maybe he could conjure up his elderly self (assuming he lived that long). Maybe THAT dude would finally have something inspiring to say.

Then again, that was a crock. That boy was stuck there.

He should just tell him to get those skills sharpened up faster. Get cracking.

There was a lot of work to do, and he could use the help.

Jason the Over-Dressed Ghost

I stumbled over a box a pictures in the basement, and I found a little mini-album of more old photo-experiments. I kind of forgot these!

Remember that double-me shot I shared a month or so ago? I forgot that I did another one at the same sitting.

This variety of shot is much easier to pull off. Basically, I set up the photo to require a certain number of seconds for a proper exposure, say 8. After exposing the film for 4 seconds with me there, my assistant (Dad again) turned off the light.

After slipping out of the shot, the light got flipped on for the final 4 seconds to complete the exposure. The overall effect is a see-through, ghostly image.

Anyone care to name this wonderful piece of 80's art??

The Sun Entwines

What better season
when flowers unveil their lace
and green smiles so pure

Game Friday: Headaches

So, it's Friday. Good Friday if you so celebrate.

We need to unwind a little, I think.

Today's invitation is to tell us what gives you a headache. What gets the old cranial vasculature pumping?

Then, as a follow-up, tell us what antidote you use to soothe those nerves.

(You feel better already, don't you?!)

I'll start.

My headache bringer: when the rate of problem creation exceeds the rate of problem solution.

My headache slayer: a massage with a really light touch.

Go at it. Exorcise those stress demons!

Not Cool

today the stress bloomed
the me who framed this photo
steadily erodes

April Valley, the Dark

not many know
a valley in the spring
where despite all other legends
real vampires rise to drink

the people of the town
sense them as they tread
wriggling most every season
in mud on which they fed

but when the ice trickles
and pools are filled with eggs
the vampires crave the surface
and harden their wormy legs

wintry hunter Orion
sinks beneath the land
birds crack their thawing voices
rebirth extends its warming hands

you see them skirt the forest
people shadowed by the wood
listening to poems of twilight
surrendering if they could

no one questions
when the wanderers disappear
seeking lonely walks
wishing vampires to be near

a woman with blowing hair
leans with budding trees
imagines the unctuous lips
and pleasure in her knees

a man is searching also
along a swelling stream
his thoughts caress the shoulders
of the girl within his dreams

then the vampires do emerge
a secret hour of the spring
the few will meet their passions
moaning as peepers sing

each year they don’t return
from fancies they were warned
now swimming in layered soil
envied more than mourned

generations never leave
where lust is mixed with dread
in the greening little valley
the living love the dead

What If, Would You?

"What if you were a prehistoric-looking bug on a gravestone. Would you jump?"

"No."

"What if you were thirsty?"

"Yes."

"Would you drink milk?"

"Yes."

"What if someone picked you up? Would you buzz?"

"Yes."

"What if you were invited to Hawaii? Would you jump for joy?"

"No."

"Would you fly first class?"

"No."

"Would you order a drink on the plane?"

"Yes."

"Would you order milk?"

"No."

"Would you drink milk when you landed?"

"Yes."

"What if you were a prehistoric-looking bug in Hawaii? Would you visit places?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on a volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on a volcanologist?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on the gravestone of a volcanologist?"

"No."

"Would you be a volcanologist?"

"No."

"A volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you be a volcanologist if it meant you got to be buried on a volcano?"

"No."

"Would you pour milk into a volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you pour milk on a volcanologist?"

"No."

"Interesting...."

Duffy's Cut, Part 3

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)



The stars burned like sugary fire in the sky.

He knelt alone at the edge of the stream. The tinkling water drowned the night sounds. Buckets hung slack in his hands as he looked up and pretended, if just for a moment, that he was a world and ocean away.

When warmth welled in his eyes, he turned back to the task. The icy rush pricked his fingers as he filled one container after another in the stream. His feet twisted into mud as he shouldered the weight and climbed the bank.

His straining footsteps crunched leaves and snapped branches through the forest.

He swayed toward the veiled light inside the moldy tent.

When he closed half the distance, the smell hit him again. Horribly more decrepit after the clean night breeze.

Inside, twelve men laid on rough frames of lumber over holes punched into the dirt. Their cloudy streams of diarrhea hit the holes and slowly seeped in. If they had the strength to move, they would probably catch wicked splinters in their bleeding asses.

A big, burly man plucked the water from John bucket by bucket. He was the one from Tyrone who never spoke. The company refused to send a proper physician, and he would not leave the men to the cholera. He hadn’t made a wage for two days already.

When John was picked clean, then man turned away.

One of the sick let loose. Another may have been sobbing.

Back outside, two pairs of withered, leathery eyes stared at the same beautiful sky. At least the company let them keep a shovel.

John started to pry out the shape of a grave.

Virtuoso

when the piano played
each note’s fingers
would curl around
the throat of another
a delicious asphyxiation
tingling in the loins
as sweat pops
in gorgeous glass baubles
sparkling on skin
chest falling
pulse surging
sweeping light and dark
with the tempo

the melody
receives him
stabbing staccato
where he gasps
to be touched

             the denouement
                 *
           *
     *
a tear
             the silence
                 *
           *
     *
empty hands
and a petal’s fall

Champion

to give anything for someone
how rare that is
a warrior
just
for you

Duffy's Cut, Part 2

(A fictionalized history series exploring what may have happened to the 57 Irish railroad workers believed to be buried in 1832 in a mass grave 30 miles west of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Past series have explored Polio, the Tunguska Event, the First Use of the Electric Chair, and the X-Ray Martyrs.)




John struggled with the wheelbarrow spilling dirt.

The packed trail snaked along hillsides under huge oak trees. He never saw so many trees. Horizon to horizon. America was a land of towering shadows.

Mr. Duffy’s foreman stood at the dumping point over the cut. He was counting wheelbarrows. If it wasn’t heaping, no count, and no pay.

“I had to shovel myself,” John said as he huffed under the weight. “My man ran into the forest. I think he shit himself.”

The foreman didn’t look up from his notebook.

He heaved the load up and over. The tiny addition of earth landed on a mound growing far below.

John leaned and rested for a precious few seconds. “I heard him moaning back there,” he said.

“Second one today,” the foreman said. “We’ll fetch him.”

“The second?”

“Not your concern.”

John didn’t like the sound of that. There were whispers about cholera on the ship. And whispers of a passenger or two helped overboard. Questions were met with tight lips. Nobody else wanted to end up disembarking early.

“You’ll be wanting more loads if you want a wage today,” the foreman said.

“I need another man.”

The foreman shrugged.

“But I need a digger!”

“That load there was skimped,” the foreman said, gesturing over the edge. “No credit.”

John slammed the wheelbarrow down.

He heaved the wooden wheels around to circle back.

“You leave that man alone,” the foreman said.


On to Part 3.

Ghost in the Woodwork

when the sun tipped past the tree line
and birds ended their morning song
he opened the windows
turned back to the rooms
and chipped for her in the woodwork

when the rays blinked in the restless leaves
and down blew from the cattails
he felt along the planking
dirtied his callused hands
and pried splinters in the floorboards

when hunger thumped its last for dinner
and crickets tested their bowstrings
he climbed the ladders
wobbly on leaning legs
and listened for her in the chandeliers

in the night
he stopped

in the darkness
she moved

her footsteps
echoed deep
in the woodwork

Tragedies Microscopic

blood is a living thing
(well, millions of living things)
a communal organism
flowing with iron and oxygen thoughts
and a few white corpuscles thrown in

blood is a living thing
until it leaves us
accidentally or by intentional hand
it dies a million deaths
yet remains a rusted community