Lazarus Kiss.42

Sis amplexibus Amor alios mututa memini et amoris in mutationes memini.

May you be embraced by a love beyond recall that alters others

and a love within recall that alters you.

kiss

Yeah. Get Harris in this place, on home ground. He pictured himself slamming Harris to the bed and with his knees pinning Harris’s shoulders down his cock could plunge into Harris’s eager mouth. Yeah that’s the ticket.

*34*

When Harris heard the muffled scream he stopped. The park was quiet except for the sounds of near by traffic. Then he heard it again. The sounds of a struggle, of a person trying to escape and to be heard at the same time.

It was coming from the shadows behind a small shed marked ‘Employees Only.’ He stayed on the well lit path. “Are you okay?” He called out.

The scuffle stopped. If it was a drug thing he didn’t want to get involved but with the Stalker alerts he didn’t want to walk away from someone being attacked. He backed closer to the park lighting.

“I’m calling 911.” He took his cell out and pressed in the numbers.

A figure darted out from the shadow and into the park away from Harris. A woman staggered out and into the light.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Clutching her torn blouse she sprawled sobbing on a nearby bench.

Harris gave the 911 operator the necessary information and was told police would be there shortly. Before he could turn to the woman a police car pulled up at the parkette entrance. He saw that another one had pulled up to the opposite side of the parkette.

A figure darted out from bushes at that end and two policeman grappled with it. After a brief struggle the figure was pushed into the backseat of the cruiser.

Two officers from the cars that had pulled up at his end of the park were talking to the woman. A third constable came over to him.

Before he got to Harris a reporter was there. The speed at which the TV crew arrived amazed Harris. Were they in the backseat of the police cruiser? A reporter was talking to him before the police could intervene.

“Did you get a good look at the Stalker? What did he look like?” The reporter angled a microphone at him.

“All I did was call 911.” Harris shrugged and stepped back from the lunging camera.

“Did you see the stalker? What did he look like? Weren’t you sacred for your own safety.” The questions were so fast Harris didn’t know which one to answer first. Another police car arrived.

Detective Alverez stepped between him and the news crew, which had been joined by another station’s crew.

“The witness has nothing to say to the press at this time.” She nodded to two policemen who herded the press away.

“We’re trying to report this story.” One of the reporters shouted.

“Our victim has a right to privacy.” Alverez replied as she steered Harris away from them and into the parkette. “Another brush with fate. You remember it this time, Mr. Stevens?”

“Not much to remember. I was on my way home and heard a struggle from behind that shed over there. I called 911. Your men showed up. Caught him. How is …”

“She’ll be fine. You didn’t actually see what happened.”

“No. A cry for help, I think. It all happened so fast I’m not sure. Saw him run across the park and right into the arms of the police. Then the camera crews arrived.”

“Yeah. They have been hot on this. Nothing legally we can do about them. Hope you won’t mind being on the news. Detective Chiba will take your statement.”

She went over to the victim.

*35*

In the elevator up to his condo Harris realized that over the past couple of weeks he had become much more accustomed to police interrogation than he ever expected to be. His life had been fairly level till … till his Dad told him about the curse.

This time he didn’t have much to tell the police. He hadn’t seen anything beyond the figure running away and the woman who staggered out from behind the storage shed. That wasn’t the sort of information that helped a case, say, if the man they caught claimed he was just leaving the park, and not the one Harris had seen darting away.

His cell rang as he went into his apartment.

“Hey Dog.”

“What’s up Trev. You dug up another of my old girlfriends.”

“Still sore about that? Nah, we’re just seeing you on the news. You’ve gone from heart breaker to lifesaver.”

“Sure looks that way.” He filled Trevor in on what had happened while he tugged off his shoes and the rest of his clothes. Why did it always feel good to get naked.

“My auntie wants to talk with you. She says she’s discovered out more about your curse.”

Harris didn’t want to care anymore. All the emotional and physical battering the curse had caused him was tiring. It seemed if they weren’t falling over him they were beating the hell out of him.

“Tomorrow night. I’m bushed from rescuing a damsel in distress, you know.”

“Harris to the rescue. I hear you. That’ll be soon enough.”

“You can tell her I know exactly what the curse says. My Dad found out in an old diary.”

“Great. Talk soon.”

*36 Friday*

When Harris got back from lunch there was a couriered envelope from his dad at his dE.tail desk. Inside was the transcription of the diary.

“Harris

Here are more of the Tobias Stevens diaries.  The full diaries run about a four hundred pages. I’ve had the pertinent sections abstracted for you. If you want the whole thing we have that.

As you’ll see there are few dates for most of the entries. Seems Tobias kept track of events and years but not of months or even days of the week. The transcription service modernized the language for clarity but we have a literal version should we need to consult that.

His brother Thomas had suffered brain damage at a child. When their parents died Tobias took him in.

Dad”

The pertinent sections covered several pages. Along with them were photocopies of the actually pages.

He started reading them on the subway home.

“I awoke early this morning to the sound of horses and shouting around my stables. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my pistols and strode out into the morning fog. There was nearly ten men from the surrounding area in the yard. Jasper McClough and his son Bradley from the farm nearest mine and some men from the village.

Jasper expostulated angrily that they were on a hunt for a vagrant gypsy man. One who had been interfering with the women of the village. Jasper himself had caught this vagrant bedding down his own good wife.

They had pursued him though the fields and are sure he saw this vagrant dash into my barn.

I ordered them off my property. Told them to come back with a constable. I did not deny what evidence Jasper may have had with his own eyes. I would not allow blood to be shed on my property. God would not allow them the privilege of dealing out punishment for adultery.

The men heeded my words and rode off vowing to return to exact their vengeance.

Once I was sure they were gone I went into the barn with my brother Thomas. I called out for this fugitive to show himself, while assuring I meant him no harm.

The man that presented himself was swarthy and dark. Fell to his knees, grabbed my hand and kissed it thanking me for interceding on his behalf. I pulled him to his feet. I was not interested in effusive gratitude.

I questioned him regarding my good neighbours’ accusations. The gypsy man, whose named was Rowell Byrnes, claimed he had no knowledge of the actions of which he was accused. Despite his dark features he bore an honest face. He appeared to be in his early twenties and in good health.”

Next pertinent portion of the diary –

“Jasper McClough and his son returned as the sun was setting. They appeared less driven by anger yet were insistent that I turn the fiendish gypsy over to them. Regardless if I didn’t believe my trustworthy neighbour he was sure I realized the danger of harbouring such a vile man, that gypsies consorted with Satan. He was positive his own cows had stopped giving milk as result of this consort of the devil.

Can’t wait to read the whole thing? order the PDF for $5.00 – paypal.me/TOpoet – say you want Kiss

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54 

I love movie soundtracks. I can’t count the number in my collection going as far back as (re-released) Busby Berkley numbers. Who can forget the shower of strings from Psycho? Though as soundtracks became more popular & the use of music in movies often so omnipresent one either stops listening or becomes distracted & longs for silence as opposed to a song that tells us what to feel because the script has failed to do so.

Often the only good thing about a movie is the soundtrack. 54 is one of those soundtracks. I have both volumes as stand alones – bought 2nd hand. The film is about the halcyon days of Studio 54 – the premiere legendary disco back in the day. I remember seeing photos of the celebs there, photos of the sweaty barely dressed waiters & go-go boys, photos of the dance floor crammed with gay men shirtless, some doing fan dances. I sure wanted to be there though I knew I’d never be let in – I didn’t have the abs or the money to fit in.

The film flopped despite a great performance by Mike Meyers. Like Studio 54 the script lacked emotional connections & relied on music & glitter & pretty people to make it work. The music is sensational. Some of it is also the soundtrack to my early years in Toronto. Songs that would keep me sweating not he dance floor – spinning around in my own world. Check out Oogie Inferno – a piece about those days.

I didn’t know many people who get washed over by a wave of almost tearful nostalgia when they hear songs like Dance Dance Dance by Chic, Don’t leave Me This Way by Thelma Huston or Grace Jones’s I Need A Man. I such such clear memories of dancing to these. Time for me to Fly, Robin, Fly.

Still Warm

‘Ah slow down boy. Yer ain’t no preacher, Preacher Boy.’

John glared at the scruffy man who had addressed him. The Bible in John’s hand gave him more strength than he felt.

‘Don’t take no preacher to know what the good book says.’

‘Yeah. Look boy,’ the man pushed his grimy face closer to John’s. ‘No book gonna keep me from ripping your guts out if ya don’t keep yer mouth closed. You unnersan that.’

The man grabbed the Bible from John and tossed it to the ground. ‘We got one God out here and that’s the sky above us. It rains we get wet, it suns and we get dry. Pretty simple. Unless you got a book that’ll tell us when it’ll rain or sun?’

John was at a loss for words. As he stooped to pick up his book he felt a twinge in his left hip where he had been mauled by some animal. These men had found him. Men he thought were a God send but now he wasn’t sure if there weren’t of the Devil himself.

‘Good thing we had that rain when we did or there’d be none to drink.’

John looked around at the four men. Pete was dark, maybe Mexican, and was sometimes called Pedro Pete. Small but stronger than the others. Missing teeth made his crooked smile a joke to the other men.

‘Give us yer fence posts Pete maybe they’ll hold some cattle for us.’ Clyde would say.

Clyde was the one who didn’t brook no book learning. He didn’t want no one telling him anything especially some Preacher Boy. He gave that name to John when he found the Bible in John’s belongings.

Frank was the oldest of them John figured but didn’t have much to say. Just watched and kept them moving along the trail. They hoped to find gold somewhere but didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to do anything.

Grint was the last of them. A plotter. When they had thought John was dead that first time they stumbled across him John had heard Grint going through his belongs, dividing them up between the four of them. It was Frank that had checked to see if the body was still warm. The body – his body – was warm.

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Rejection

On a recent recent DisabilityAfterDark Andrew Gurza interviews Josh Galassi and they talk about a range of issues – in particular when to come out about their disability on dating sites like Grindr, Scruff (don’t look for me on either as I don’t have a smart phone). Neither wants to mislead but at the same time don’t want to be rejected before any sort of contact can be initiated.

Both have experienced face-to-face rejections as well as ghosting (someone who is interested then vanishes when you reveal something like being wheel-chair disabled). I’ve had experience with both those ‘dating’ styles. Not that I am disabled in any way but I’ve had guys totally eager who ghosted me when I replied ‘no’ to things like do you do poppers, smoke up etc.

 

When I was first in Toronto I did some personal ad dating – there was no Internet in those days – via Body Politic, later Extra. I had guys who showed up at my apartment, took one look when I opened the door turned on their heels & left. I guess looking like my description was too much for them. I was totally discouraged by that – was I that repulsive, unattractive, not butch enough, too butch. At least Andrew knows the why – which doesn’t make rejection any easier to take mind you.

Listening to Andrew and Josh talk about how deeply they were affected by their early dating ‘mishaps’ it made me realize how I was more that disappointed & confused. I felt undesirable and for a time was willing to go with anyone who showed an interest, even if i wasn’t all that keen on them. Growing up fearful about expressing sex I was almost grateful anyone showing sexual interest in me – it was if they were just doing it to be nice. I never thought these men might be as afraid of rejection as I was.

I know today rejection isn’t the end of the road it just clearing the way for the next opportunity.

 

Matty

before she married my Dad

my Mom dated a guy named Matty O’Malley

but when my Dad showed up

she only had eyes for him

this is how that story always began

 

I ask “were you blind before Dad”

and she would laugh

“well I really didn’t know

what a man looked like till your Dad.

Matty was a big brawly bruiser

with legs big enough to seat two people”

 

“sounds like you saw a lot of Matty

for someone who was blind” I joke

“well I suppose I did

young girls in those days

were supposed to be shy creatures

but I wasn’t like other girls

which was something your Dad realized

but that Matty never appreciated

Matty tried to impress me with money

his manly smell

the things I was taught

a man was supposed to do

to get the girl of his dreams”

 

“you were the girl of Matty’s dreams”

“well I guess so but his dreams were over

when I laid eyes on your father”

I would look at my Dad

as he snored in front of the wireless

toes poking out of socks

loose jockey shorts

that barely held his abundant manhood

and I didn’t get it

 

“Dad was the man of your dreams”

“I didn’t even know I was asleep honey

I thought Matty O’Malley was my fate

that I’d have to marry him

live in one of those big houses on Gold Crescent

with swimming pools and servants

Matty was one of the richest men in the village”

 

“Dad woke you up from that dream”

all I could see was me

in one of those swimming pools

“that’s for sure

it was during Moosefest

when he strode right up to me

took me by the arm

before I knew it we were walking up the aisle

and I was beating his clothes clean on the rocks”

 

“what about Matty”

“oh he killed himself silly man.

jumped into the canal during the wedding

it was sort of sad

but each time I see your Dad . . . ”

she stopped to brush some crumbs of moose pie

from my sleeping Dad’s lap

“I know I made the right decision”

 

her voice changed to a softer pitch

which told me it was time to leave the room

I went to the back yard

that held my Dad’s ramshackle shed

 

no swimming pool

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The Tingler

Taking an October break from 227 Rules to share some very recent ‘scary’ pieces. How recent? This one was started October 5, 2017. Blood is best fresh and this one is still dripping.

The Tingler

as a boy

I couldn’t tell the truth

if my life depended on it

mot that I was a compulsive liar

or even lied that often

but under any sort of questioning

I was guilty

regardless of being innocent

Did you do that?

no – which was the truth

Go to your room

Until you are ready to tell the truth.

but

No buts. Now go you lying loser.

 

to avoid that banishment

I’d have to tell a lie

but I was even a worse liar

thanks to some movie I saw

where some sort of centipede

would materialize

around the spine

when you were scared

lying scared me

as much as telling the truth

I would feel those

million sharp legs

sinking into my back

my skin would tingle

The Tingler!

that’s what that movie was called

a lie would kill me

it would crush my heart

burst out of my nose

brain spattering everywhere

insect legs would dig out from my eyes

 

so I was afraid to lie

the punishment for telling the truth

was bad enough

not be be believed

not to be trusted was confusing

it was better to leave the room

let them think what they wanted

because the clearly truth

made no fucking difference

 

at that age

they made sure

I knew I was a lying loser

a useless dishonest kid

which I know now was a lie

and that’s the truth

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The Original of The Species

The Original of The Species

I did not

copy your runway walk

paint in your style

well

maybe I did take a little

you can’t blame me though

consider it flattery

I didn’t do it as well as you did

at least

I don’t think I did

no matter what others say

I didn’t try to do you

better than you do yourself

I never claimed to be the originator

just because I didn’t credit you

with being my inspiration

merely means

I knew everyone would see through me

would see you

not me

the fact that they didn’t

isn’t my fault

I’m not using your name

to get ahead

I’m not denying your influence

to suppress you

I’m denying it because

I have the power to do so

which was one of the best things

you taught me

how to use what power I have

to minimize the obvious influence

of others so my reflection of you

has now becomes the real deal

This starts with a moment from America’s Next Top Model in which one of the models accused another of stealing her runway walk. As the show is edited for drama, & the women encouraged to be nasty when the cameras are on them I didn’t take it all too seriously – though on the show this lead to verbal assault, name calling & lots of bleeping bleeps.

I played with the flow of power in this piece with my narrator admitting to the copying but without remorse. I think of All About Eve or even Ripley’s Game in which one character takes over the life of another to create a new one of their own. In those cases the taker-over denies what they are doing while continuing to do it. There is also an echo of the ‘he stole my music/play/writing & claimed it was his’ that shows up in films as well. Of course no one believes the poor artists who then seeks revenge.

 

But what is original? We all have influences, sometimes that influence is very clear. Sometimes in fact the clear that influence the greater the respect. Who doesn’t want to described as out Hemingway Hemingway? or taking Ginsberg to the next level. Can you really tell the difference between Lady Gaga and Madonna?

 

I love the way this piece ends with my narrator baldly admitting the theft & that they used the power gained to further suppress their influencer because they know their influencer would do the same if they could. Just because there isn’t anything new under the sun doesn’t mean I won’t take credit for it if I can 🙂

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Lazarus Kiss.41

Sis amplexibus Amor alios mututa memini et amoris in mutationes memini.

May you be embraced by a love beyond recall that alters others

and a love within recall that alters you.

kiss

After a quick shower he headed off to Story for his evening shift. Another hot busy night. Busy thanks to a couple of co-ed softball teams that dropped by after their game. One of the women players kept giving him the eye but when he responded she’d chill to him.

He was used to this sort of tease. Women who were interested but didn’t want their friends to catch on. There was no real harm in a little playing around like this. Made him feel desirable even if there was nothing to it than that.

He got home around 2 a.m. His apartment door swung open at his touch. He was sure he had set the code when he left for work. He could hear the TV on and knew he had left that off.

He stepped in as quietly as he could.

Linda was standing in the living room.

“Never use your birthday as an entry code Alex. I figured it would be either mine or yours.’

‘What the fuck do you want.”

“A few last things. My lap top for one. Seems I was wrong though, wasn’t I. I never took you for that type.”

“Type?”
“Yeah you know, the faggot type.” she nodded at the lap top. The porno he had watched earlier was playing.

“I knew there was more to Ultimate Fighter stuff that got guys off, right. Even though they don’t get naked it has to be the gayest thing on TV outside of America’s Next Top Model. You ever make one of these or do you just jack off to them.”

“You … ”

“Don’t deny it. How did these,” she pointed to her panties, “get wet?” With a quick flick of her fingertips the panties splatted on the computer screen. “You are so pathetic. Fuck. How long, eh? How long. What diseases were you exposing me to, eh.” She was screaming at him. “How long?”
“As if ya gave a shit.” He didn’t want to tell her anything. “If you’re that scared, get a fucking blood test.”

“You asshole.” she lunged at him. He stepped aside. “You pathetic asshole.”

“Linda, I don’t fuckin’ care what ya reckon.”

“Yeah, well maybe they will at the gym. Oh right, they’re all in on it anyway. At least that’s the way it looks in the porno. Cally know her big bro is a man ho?”

“That isn’t going to prove anything. Why don’t you just give up Linda.”

“Give up. Like you? You fucking loser. You gave up your scholarship. You gave up your promising fight career. You gave up on us. On me. Giving up is your solution to life not mine.”

“Those fight injures weren’t my fault.”

“It’s never your fault. Now this. From loser to faggot in one quick step. From heman to homoman.” She smeared the panties on the screen. “Enjoy that.”

“No, you enjoy it. After all it’s your lap top. You stupid broad.”

Had she always felt he was a loser? It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t control his temper. That he couldn’t see wrestling as strategy.

Even if it wasn’t the disc injury that made him leave the pro fight circuit but he wasn’t going to let anyone, especially Linda, know that he wasn’t interested in all the crap that went on out of the ring. The boozing, pain meds, drugs to get it up for hookers because none of them could keep any relationship going. He was bored by the need to bag and brag.

When he hurt his back he was glad to use that as an excuse to fade away. To not come back to that end of the game. They wanted him back. Even Linda wanted him to continue. She didn’t have clue what went on when they were on the road. That wasn’t giving up, that it was a strategic withdrawal before he killed another brute to keep them from hurting him. Never told her about the guy that died. The man he killed.

“You’re expecting someone. That’s it, isn’t. You want me out of here because some piece of ass is about to arrive.” Linda sat on the couch. “Well, I’m going to sit here till I see who it is. To see if it has tits or a dick. Or they’ll have both. Fuck why didn’t I think of that sooner. That’d explain why I never smell a guy on you, You’re into trannies.”

“Jesus Linda.” Alex longed to go to bed. “I’ve spent the last six hours dealing with the East Churchville soft ball league. All I want to do is go to bed. To sleep.”

“Tell it to the umpire.” Linda smirked. “You’ve never been too tired to get it up.”

She walked over to him and kissed him. Ran her hands over his body. “You smell like work. You know how much that smell turns me on. Sweaty man. Look I’m sorry for being such a …. bitch.” She began to cry. “I really love you, you know. I don’t want us to be over. I don’t.”

“Ya could’a fooled me.” Alex tried to push her away. Her perfume brought back the times they’d fallen into bed laughing and grabbing excitedly at each other.

“Well, you never did have much insight into the female mind, did you. I guess that’s part of what I liked about you. You were such a chauvinist. Strong. I like that. A strong man who knows what he wants.” She kept kissing his face. Her hands caressing his cock and balls through his jeans.

“Doesn’t take much insight to understand packed boxes and an empty dresser.” He pulled her hands away from him. “Gone is gone. It was time. Admit it. Other than sex there isn’t fuckin’ much holding us together, is there.”

Linda backed away.

“It’s not that I don’t dig ya Linda. But ….”

“But you’d rather get off while beating the shit out of some ultimate fighter faggot?”
“No. That was … well …. it’s something I don’t get m’self. But …”

“Is that ‘but’ spelt with one ‘t’ or two.”

“Even if ya knew what you’re talking about ya reckon anyone would listen to you? You sound like the crazy bitter dumped broad you are.”

“You mean you don’t care that people will know you’re a cock-sucking faggot?”

“No more than you’ll care that people’ll be surprised ya were such a dumb ass bitch bimbo as to live with me for the last four years and not know! Now take your crap and get out of here before I call the police and turn ya in for break and enter.”

He went to the door and opened it.

She turned on the landing. “If I go I’m not coming back. Not even sneaking back like this, understand that.”

“Yeah.” He resisted an urge to fuck her one last time.

“Is that all you’ve got to say. One grunted monosyllable.”

“Be happy.” He shut the door and leaned against it.

“Be happy!”

“Fuck you.” He could hear her kick the door. He wondered if that panty smear could be cleaned off the monitor screen. Who did he know who might know? Harris. Right Harris worked on computers all day. A guy with a gut like that had to be eating and splashing crap on his monitor all the time.

Yeah. Get Harris in this place, on home ground. He pictured himself slamming Harris to the bed and with his knees pinning Harris’s shoulders down so his cock could plunge into Harris’s eager mouth. Yeah that’s the ticket.

Can’t wait to read the whole thing? order the PDF for $5.00 – paypal.me/TOpoet – say you want Kiss

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Beyond the 5th Dimension

5th Dimension’s Superhits starts off an mp3 collection that also includes Rare Earth; Ides of March; Sugarloaf; Colosseum; Ten Wheel Drive; and Yellow Balloon. A very mixed blast from my past. Superhits is an all too short completion of 5th Dimension’s radio singles. The strongest of which were their Laura Nyro (genius) covers. But what I remember best is their costumes. Clothes that were so over-the-top the songs became secondary to what they were wearing – so secondary in fact they were never taken seriously as musicians or singers. Slick commercial packages were the thing then (that hasn’t really changed mind you).

Fun aside: for many years I would find The Byrds: 5D – Fifth Dimension filed with the Fifth Dimension’s lps in record stores & sometimes vice versa. I suppose in some ways they were interchangeable: feel good bands in wild costumes. 5th never embraced country the way The Byrds did, though Marlyn McCoo did give it a try as her career faded after Solid Gold.

Rare Earth, perhaps best remembered for ‘I Just Want to Celebrate,’ are still active!! Here I have early lps: Anthology, Get Ready, Fill Your Head, Ecology: a horn driven r’n’b, nearly prog-rock band, they produced solid, elevated bar music that rocks with some memorable tunes. Ides of March: Vehicle – is another horn-driven band sounding like Blood, Sweat & Tears (BST) that managed one bit hit: Vehicle. More of that US jazzy prog-rock with tracks like Symphony for Eleanor (Rigby).

Then there’s Colosseum: with their album Ides of March – not to be confused with the above. Another early 70’s US, jazzy prog-rock, horn band that I only added when I found them while looking for the band Ides of March. A happy discovery mind you. I didn’t realized BST had spawned so many imitators.

Another one hit wonder is Sugarloaf: anyone recall Green-Eyed Lady? A slightly folksier version of Grand Funk Railway – this is fine bar music with solid singing, horns & over-riding masculinity. The reverse is Ten Wheel Drive’s Construction. Lots of horns, jazzy soul but with powerhouse Genya Ravan as lead singer. She was groomed replace Janis Joplin & has the voice to do it but stepped back from the star machine. The band is more jazz than BST, the music more bluesy than pop. I have more of their lps tucked away in other mp3 collections. Genya Ravan is a seminal force for female rockers. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genya_Ravan.

Finally Yellow Balloon: as light as their name. Association/Beach Boys harmonies & a solid, over-looked treat. This ended up here thanks to going Up Up & Away in my yellow balloon. The group is notable for featuring Don Grady of My Three Sons fame.

The Night’s Wash

Was that weeping?

John pulled his thin blankets tighter around him. One thing the horse was good for was to keep him warm. It was colder now than it had been. A shred of smoke hung over his fire.

A sound had brushed his ear and pulled him awake. He rolled carefully onto his back. No sound, just the wind, leaves rustled.

He could smell something though. Something not horse. Something … he heard the sound again. A bit of  whimper. Not human.

He pulled his legs up close to him. His eyes squinted into the dark but made out nothing. Just the few trees, stars above.

The smell. What was that smell?

A wet touched his ear. He bolted to his feet and fell back over his saddle bag, his feet tangled in rope.

‘Oh Lord no. Not like this.’

His scream echoed and faded. He caught his breath. On his back. Looking up at the sky.

Movements. Something moved around him now. Heavy. Plodding. What should he do. Curl up into a ball? Play dead?

It was real. Finally real. Not a dime novel about facing down a bear but a real bear. It was a bear. It had to be.

Wet on his cheek. His forehead. More wet.

Rain!

It was rain. A crack of lightening lit the clearing around him.

Rain.

He could feel his heart as it slowed down.

What did he have to catch the rain in? Something. His cup and dish wouldn’t hold much. Could he fill the canteen. He’d left the spare with the horse. Empty.

Would there be enough rain to wash. Could he wash here in the night.

He peeled of his dusty cloths and hung them on branches. Chilled to the bone he rubbed a piece of cloth around his shoulders and down. Cold and clean. It felt good. The midnight rain would cleanse him. Purify him.

He couldn’t see through the rain.

God was good. This was good. The good new land would take him and care for him. He knew it would.

The paw struck him on the buttock and sent him into the brush.

 

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November 1-30

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Blood Bath Water

I watch a lot of movies – things recorded off the TV or DVD’s. I essential like sci-fi, horror crap pre-2000. I also enjoy musicals, noir, some comedy – but spare me romcom, emotional self-realizations, mafia, drug dealing or bullying. I have friends who rave about certain films or TV shows that have enthralled them with the unflinching depictions of social struggles – my reaction is honey why would I pay money to see what I can see on the subway. I get enough stories or real emotional recovery & redemption from people in AA why would I want to see a movie about it.

I enjoy swearing less & less, ditto for violence – which certainly limits what there is to see, right. All too often I feel people are more interested in, say, exploiting & relishing the suffering of the bullied than they are in the fighting back of the victim. I suspect sometimes the savage rapes in movies are enjoyed more than the victim’s survival.

 

As much as I’m happy, if happy is the right word, to see the violence in films & on TV become more realistic – this improvement in f/x often looks like an end unto itself & adds little to moving a story forward or creating character depth. Accurate blood spatter is fine but if the blood is spurting solely to show off how accurate the blood spatter is I’m bored.

Much like novels where violence is fetishized, film makers give us hyper real violence with a lack of emotional context. When it comes to dialogue, or interaction between characters there is no realism beyond snappy one-liners. Throwing out plot with the blood bath water. Emotional connections are so fragile as to be fantasy fulfillment, just like the violence. Not my fantasy, anymore.

Belief Without Knowledge

for a term project I decided

to explore the legend

of how the moose came from the moon

I went to the cathedral to interview the bishop

he would know

after all there was the golden statue

of the moose at the foot of the cross

but the bishop was not forthcoming

it was considered a secret church doctrine

not to be shared

with those who weren’t of the cloth

those sacred secrets were the heart of faith

one had to accept mystery to experience

the full depth of belief

I would be better off

putting my energy into something more productive

the history of darkness in strip bars

I wasn’t going to be put off that easily

everything he told me

made me more curious

what secrets was the church hiding

 

I went to the Bureau of Game and Fisheries

to see what information I could get

all I could find in the files

were instructions for hunting

on gutting and persevering the moose

I asked the agent in charge of the office

if there was more information

on the how the moose

came here from the moon

he stared at me stunned

and asked ‘why what have you heard?’

pale fear crossed his face

‘whatever it is, it isn’t true

those are all false rumours

there is nothing to that story

there was no ufo landings in this area

to take them back to the moon

there has been no attempt to cover that fact up

nothing was found in Atkins’ Lot

to back up those allegations

you better run along son

try to think of something more

appropriate for your term paper

like the history of gutting smelt’

he pushed me out of his office

locked the door

 

puzzled I went home

I asked my Dad about Atkins’ Lot

my Dad paled

‘No son there is nothing to that old story

why do you want to know’

I  explained about my term paper

that it could earn me a scholarship

to study at the Grand Academy

in the big city

‘better ask you mother

what she thinks of that

much as we’d like to see you get ahead

you’ve picked a most dangerous topic

why not do a term paper

on the magic properties of moose blood?’

 

thus started my journey to balance

belief with knowledge

faith without mystery

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November 1-30

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Cape Fever

Taking an October break from 227 Rules to share some very recent ‘scary’ pieces. How recent? This one  was written October 2, 2017. Blood is best fresh and this one is still dripping.

Cape Fever

it was a black satin half-slip

with a hem of red lace

I found in my mother’s dresser

it was cool on my skin

I twisted & turned

in front of the mirror

to see it flow

clutching the waist

around my eight-year-old throat

so it was my black cape

dripping with the blood

I’d dragged it through

but it wasn’t long enough

not full enough

meant for my mother’s narrow hips

when I tried to sweep it up

to cover my face

it fell off

it would never be Dracula’s cape

 

besides my eye brows were wrong

even after I tired to create

those terrifying arches

using eyebrow forms from

my mother’s Elizabeth Arden make up kit

it had dozens of shapes to

none were arched enough

so I did what I could

by turning one upside down

spectacular

 

the mouth full of tomato catchup

was impossible

too thick

for it drip over my teeth

or out of the corners of my mouth

the red was wrong

beet juice was the right colour

but way too thin

the two didn’t mix well either

 

but those eyebrows were spectacular

they scared even me

in the mirror

when I held a flashlight under my chin

all I needed was the right cape

and a victim

Please Give

Please Give

you can make a difference

in the lives of these children

dogs

endangered species

bees

ice shelf

you can make a difference

the overfishing of the sea

the destruction of the rain forest

the testing of make up on animals

 

only you can help

we know you want to

if only to stop

seeing these high definition

close ups of tears on cheeks

skin taut over fragile bones

acres of swamps

replaced with sugar cane fields

birds slicked with oil

 

babies

look it’s babies

for fuck sake

innocent little kittens

going hungry

so skinny

even the starving human babies

won’t eat them

 

only you can help

these photographers need work

these administrators need

your funds to administrate

we don’t want you to rescue anyone

we have skilled professionals

who studied in universities

to learn how to teach these unfortunates

what they need to change

to become suitable candidates for rescue

that education doesn’t come for free

you won’t have to touch anything

other than key pad in a donation

 

only you can help

only you

At our house we get an endless supply of free note-pads, greeting cards, stickers, pens from various charities looking for our support. Much like the publishing industry the people who make the real money are the printers not the writers. So I am more than a little jaded, or is it cynical, by appeals for support.

The cost of creating these ad campaigns comes from our donations. I’ve seen a breakdown of where our donations to charities go & the smallest fraction goes to the actual starving children the rest, as the piece states, goes to administrative costs. Along as there is money to be made from poverty poverty will be with us. The costs of administering things like welfare is greater than the amount of money given via welfare. They spend more money making sure people deserve to get welfare than is given in welfare.

I’d rather give a street person a $10 Tim’s card than donate $10 to some charity for street people. At least I know her/she is getting my money. At least I’ve reached out & not sent a check to avoid seeing a street person. That is a bit part of charity – people donating to get the ‘suffering’ out of sight so they don’t have to look at it not because they really care about the ‘suffering.’

Speaking of charity you can always send me a bit of your hard-earned money via PayPal 🙂 It goes to a worthy cause. All you get in return is my gratitude no note pads, stickers or even exclusive content. Just look at my photographs: pathetic pleas for rescue aren’t they. If I could afford a better camera, faster uploads, I could included even more maudlin images if my ramblings aren’t pathos enough to loosen your purse strings 🙂 Give now – only you can make a difference.

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