tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41201889770076719752024-03-20T04:18:27.767-04:00The Country of GhostsThe FICTION will see the REALAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-35237733632483862602013-01-01T10:16:00.002-05:002013-01-01T10:16:21.520-05:00"Strikethrough" Nominated for "Story of the Year: All Genres"<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Extremely proud to announce that my short story, <i>Strikethrough</i>, has been nominated for "Short Story of the Year: All Genres" at Preditors and Editors.</div>
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The award is a reader's poll, and the voting is live from now until January 14th. You can vote <a href="http://www.critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml">here</a>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a great writing year for me, and this nomination was just a bit more icing on the cake, and any support you can offer would be much appreciated.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thanks!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-28435122022869027412012-12-21T10:22:00.001-05:002012-12-21T10:22:00.484-05:00Guest Blog on Project Middle Grade Mayhem<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Very excited to announce that I have a guest blog up at <a href="http://project-middle-grade-mayhem.blogspot.com/">Project Middle Grade Mayhem</a>, concerning authentic writing in Middle School classrooms. Please check it out today! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Also, a big thanks to Eden Unger Bowditch, author of <u><a href="http://www.bancroftpress.com/atomicweight_praise.html">The Atomic Weight of Secrets: <i>The Arrival of the Mysterious Men in Black</i></a></u>, for a very kind introduction.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Here's the link:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<a href="http://project-middle-grade-mayhem.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-voice-of-mg-teacher.html">http://project-middle-grade-mayhem.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-voice-of-mg-teacher.html</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-7609296012720558922012-09-24T16:02:00.000-04:002012-09-24T16:02:00.691-04:00Strikethrough is now a Podcast!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">My Short Story, "Strikethrough" is now a featured podcast on Every Day Fiction. Folly Blaine did a wonderful job on the story, and needless to say, I'm a proud papa right now. Please comment, and most importantly, rate the podcast when you get a chance, and if you haven't commented or rated the story itself, feel free to do that as well!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Thanks!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /><a href="http://www.everydayfiction.com/podcast-edf084-strikethrough-by-matt-daly-read-by-folly-blaine/">http://www.everydayfiction.com/podcast-edf084-strikethrough-by-matt-daly-read-by-folly-blaine/</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-16762204932922002062012-08-16T09:26:00.000-04:002012-10-03T20:23:49.470-04:00The Sorcerer's Apprentice<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Chard<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">The brooms are gathering their water buckets again, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">the froth of suds sloshing over the hooper's work <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">and dripping onto the perilous stairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">I'll try not to be frantic this time, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">running around in my foolishly flapping robes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">and adjusting the ill-fitting hat over my ridiculous ears.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">The water is pouring from the parapets now, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">like the veiled threats and childish aggression <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">wielded in an unknown and undeserved place, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">while you summoned majestic goshawks <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">and women drawn from flames. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">You spoke with me calmly then, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">delicately placating my naive assumptions, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">never raising your voice, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">maintaining the control over yourself that amazed me so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">And now, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">I'm on my own again, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">desperate to do anything other than destroy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">the castle you left for me, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">handing me the keys and this robe, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">and even leaving the hat for me to find, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">a final chance to salvage something <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">from the gifts you gave so freely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">When I see you again, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">still damp from my imperfect art, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">I will embrace you, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">show you the wilting bouquet I wrestled from my hat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">the absolute lack of visible bunnies, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">smile like a mouse, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13pt;">and thank you. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-80391478092828824302012-07-20T10:43:00.001-04:002012-07-20T10:43:03.453-04:00First Encounter<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Waves bob into peaks and
points<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">this October afternoon, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">and beneath is harder
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Gulls swoop<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">the cold bay’s jetties, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">dropping littlenecks to
break them apart, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">to feed before winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Concrete bleached gray,
the duneside parking lot<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">is windswept and empty,
except for <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">rustling clothes, cold
jeans <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">against motionless legs
rooted in docksiders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Hands closed in sweaty
fists, pockets <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">of warmth against the
chill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You might read pain, an
unnamed sadness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">A deteriorating <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">battleship rusts to ribs
eight miles away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">We pushed the Indians <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">from here and out, but I
am comforted, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">these stories without “I”,
life without me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">triumphs in off-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">seasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-64415050892127842552012-07-13T08:20:00.002-04:002012-07-13T08:20:43.821-04:00Flash Fiction Chronicles InterviewI was floored to see such a positive response when my short story, "<a href="http://www.everydayfiction.com/strikethrough-by-matt-daly/">Strikethrough</a>," was published by <a href="http://www.EveryDayFiction.com/">EveryDayFiction.com</a> . It was selected as the top story for the month of June, and as a result, I was interviewed by the site's blog Flash Fiction Chronicles. Please take a minute to check it out, I had a great time doing it, and the interviewer, Thomas Jay Rush, did a great job as well.<br />
<br />
You can view the article <a href="http://www.everydayfiction.com/flashfictionblog/interview-matt-daly-has-edfs-top-story-for-june/">HERE</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-76094499057275227672012-07-06T08:20:00.002-04:002012-07-06T08:20:47.562-04:00Why They Can Call My Mother "Mary"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Larry’s knuckles were
bitten, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">sometimes scratched, to
bone, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">scabs never healing before
a fresh bite,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">skin screaming to be
picked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He must have drunk liters <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">of his own blood, slowly, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">in thirty-eight years <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">of stunted, aimless
walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Here tonight, with the
rest <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">of Mom’s “Group,” to
bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">My brother and I sit,
avoiding eyes, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">embarrassed for the ragged
shuffles, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">awkward laughs – the
gutterball <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom gets up <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">as Larry selects a ball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She reaches for slumped
shoulders<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">and positions him to roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She covers those torn
hands <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">with her own, to help him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03597817384432679249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-46696882240873652122011-05-09T22:41:00.000-04:002011-05-09T22:42:11.509-04:00New Houses<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse; "><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;">A bare bulb swings lazily above the bare wooden table, the slight breeze licking through the fluttering blinds; early Spring twilight air.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>The house is still mostly empty, and a slew of boxes populate the halls and bedrooms, but we are done for today, and my brother and I sit across from each other, elbows on the Beech-stained table, sipping warm beer; as the refrigerator arrives tomorrow.<span> </span>The white walls lack any sort of pictures or knick-knacks, and the light bounces around the room, illuminating the area underneath our chins; stagelighting in a barren dining room.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>At some point, we know it is time.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>Pushing out our chairs, we walk to the backdoor, and descend the long wooden stairway to the backyard.<span> </span>The sun is newly gone, and the sky is marked by incoming thunderheads in the distance, and a low white light that extends a dome a few blocks away, likely the neighborhood Little League field.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>The air is cool, and the t-shirts we wear are ill-suited for our task.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>A shadowbox fence lines the back of the property, and on the side of the yard, a glistening pile of mud stands roughly ten feet above the freshly cut dew grass.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We cross the yard, light from the window casting weak, thin shadows before us, our bare feet leaving water tracks through the lawn.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>The mound is bulbous, a giant dripcastle of mud, and as we approach it, the pulsating becomes apparent; dull reflections on the surface heave and shudder from the pile, a result of its tragic contents.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>The mud covers a host of mothers and their babies, slowly moving beneath the gathered earth, and as we watch, another arrives.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>She walks slowly down the hill on the side of the house, wearing a loose, white<span> </span>t-shirt and worn-in jeans.<span> </span>Her hair is short, easy to maintain.<span> </span>Her baby sits on her hip, arms flailing and waving to us, tiny eyes in the darkness taking in everything the new scene has to offer.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>She asks us to bury her.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We nod as always, noting the tear tracks that trail her cheeks, no mascara to worry about.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>At this point there’s no reason to plead.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>A look of thanks, and she moves towards the shifting mass, lying against it, allowing it to take their weight.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We begin with her feet, scooping handfuls of the wet mud, and packing it over her.<span> </span>We are on our knees, mother and child watching us as we reach her hips, and she moves the baby (we are convinced it is a girl, something in the smile) to her chest, the child reaching out to hug the mother’s face.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We move to the torso, arms caked to the elbow now, our knees wet from the grass despite our workpants.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>The sun is gone, the memory of the clouds fades, and the halo of baseball lights go out.<span> </span>Only the yellow glow of the house windows is left, highlighting the figures we are burying.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We cover her face at last, and the baby coos softly as we cover hers as well; both of us openly weeping now.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>My brother is up first, wringing his hands, and I stand as well.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We walk from the larger mound, away from the new twitching additions, and use the garden hose to wash the mud from our arms.<span> </span>The water is colder than the night air, and it bites our skin, our calloused hands, as the mud disappears back to the ground.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 26px; "><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span> </span>We walk up the stairs, take our places at the table, sip our warm beers, and mouth our prayers in silence.</span></span></p></span>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-66163663499059986912011-03-16T21:08:00.002-04:002011-03-16T21:12:25.848-04:00Action/Adventure<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There’s always the running, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">a destination of safety, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">planes or lifeboats or higher ground. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A close call as the disaster approaches, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">before they </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(and we) </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">triumph over nature, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">avoid the projected cataclysm,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">as long as we have love and family and hope </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and Twizzlers </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">at our fingertips. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 11.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We marvel at the graphically generated flood</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that crests Himalayan mountaintops, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">watch in awe as the 3D meteor </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">irradiates sea water, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">sending skyscraper tidal waves </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">toward unsuspecting cities. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The volcano explodes,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">painting the screen, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">rivers of flame pouring </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">through quaint suburban neighborhoods </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and we cheer it, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">rattling our ice-filled cups </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and grinning with kernel-laced teeth. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 11.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And last night,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">on a much smaller screen,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">the celebrity designer was in tears. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He said that it was like swimming </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">in a soup of lifeless bodies </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and babies, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that the smell stays with him, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that his lover was lost so suddenly. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A black river breeches its banks, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">spilling into a car park, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and tosses yachts into highway overpasses. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">People in the distance flee too slowly, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and inevitable prediction takes over, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">as the amateur videographer </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">shifts his shaky frame.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Bloated corpses wash up for months, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">the tsunami’s only concession, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and the Pacific Rim </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">is littered with the taken dead. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 11.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There is no second act </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">as the waters run their course, </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and the ark they needed </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">does not exist </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">outside the now ruined theaters.</span></span></p>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-9865286490049896322011-01-25T09:18:00.002-05:002011-01-25T09:21:49.893-05:00Shore House Mornings<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >-For Ash and Maeve</span></span><br /><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "Garamond"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; </style><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Garamond;font-size:14pt;" > </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">The low thunder rhythm is infinite,</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">a stalwart behemoth,</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">always present in cadence,</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">beyond the salt-crusted sliding doors.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">The water throws gold </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">under the hard dawn sun, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">an outdoor illusion of summer.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">Hands pressed against the glass </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">create fog auras, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">halos for fingers, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">our ten saints at daybreak.<span style=""> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">The brass handle is colder, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">and opening the door </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">creates a house-resounding shudder.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">Crisp air wicking off the breakers </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">engulfs the senses.<span style=""> </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">Sweatshirt and shorts, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">shoeless on the wooden deck, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">the dichotomy of warmth.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">Below, the waves barrel and break </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">against the shore and jetties, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">while the pale dune grass flitters </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">at the wind’s will.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">The vast expanse dominates the landscape, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">mocks the paltry man-made lights </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">of a distant northern neon peninsula.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">The thought of coffee </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">beckons back in the warm room, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">and the rooms beyond, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">where both my girls </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">are asleep under covers </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">this autumn morning, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">softly mumbling, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">and I whisper to the witness sea, </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">my replies to their requests </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Garamond;">for anything.</span></span></p>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-66755043005897874222010-08-15T13:21:00.001-04:002010-09-19T13:02:48.958-04:00Your Small House in Ruins<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 18.0px Times"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:180%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Yellow light filtered through the cracked slats of the stable walls. The horses were uneasy, and occasionally dragged their hooves against the ground, kicking up particles of hay that floated in the air. As the day passed, the slivers of light shifted across the barn’s floor, a natural sundial on the lazy Sunday before work would resume. The clinking of horseshoes continued from outside, and two men entered the stable from the side opposite the crowd, their hats in their hands.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The first man was beaten down, his shoulders were slumped, as if he had conceded something of great importance. The second man was younger, but it was clear his years had been hard, and he moved his small eyes around the room, quickly, in search of a very specific goal.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Why’d you bring me in here?” the second man said, concern in his voice.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The old man raised the stump where his hand should have been, and simply pointed at the large bale of hay that dominated the open area of the stable. The young man began moving towards it, a bit of desperation in his stride.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He found her after the first few steps. He stopped, only for a moment, and then he squatted down in front of her. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Hay had been haphazardly placed over her face, but even so, it was clear to see that her neck was situated at a strange angle. Her white skin stood in stark contrast to the deep red dress she wore, and when he removed the hay from her face, he noticed that her lipstick matched her dress. Her normally tight curls were still in place, save for a few that had been mussed against the haybale.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I found her a few minutes ago, do you think he did it?” The old man’s voice came out with obvious sadness.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The younger man, the sharp-faced man, didn’t respond other than to shrug his shoulders, as he reached out his hand and held it under her nose.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“She ain’t breathin’,” he began, mostly to himself. He moved his hand to her neck, and felt the unnatural lump of bone, jutting out from the spine, “Her neck’s been bust. He coulda done that.” That was when he saw the puppy, broken like the girl, and discarded to the side; it was also hastily covered with hay. Candy saw it as well. He looked back at the old man, and his face was intentionally unreadable, like he was at a card table. It was a test.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’re we gonna do, George?” the old man asked.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Let me think,” George responded, “just gimme a minute.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The two men stood still, gauging their options, and then George spoke again, his words chosen carefully.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’ll they do to him if they get him?”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The old man looked up from staring at the ground, and his expression was one of fear. “Curley’s gonna want to kill him. Especially after what he done to Curley’s hand.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George took this as confirmation, “I think you’re right, Candy, I think Curley’s gonna want him dead. You know I can’t let that happen.” He was still testing Candy, to see how far his allegiance lay.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I know George,” Candy responded, desperately attempting to get George to trust him, “That ain’t no good.” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Okay, I got a plan, but it ain’t nice. I think it’ll work, but you gotta trust me.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Okay George, okay.” The old man was resigned to George like a dog. “Let’s just do it then.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">`<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George began rooting around the stable until he found a long rope. Candy stood and watched trying to figure what he was up to. George finally found a long snaking piece of hemp line, and threw the bulk of it over one of the stables rafters, while he held on to one end.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Realization began to creep onto Candy’s face.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“The way I figure it,” George began, “this tart has been spending every day of the last month of her life complainin’, and cryin’, and carryin’ on.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Candy nodded.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Maybe she came in here, and finally decided to end it. Find me a chair or a stool.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Candy moved off in search of George’s request. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George took one end of the rope and began to tie the knot, he looped the rope, and threaded the loop through the coils he had created. Candy returned with a milking stool, and George showed him the noose he had made.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I’m gonna go get her, and bring her to the stool. You just put this around her neck, and I’ll do the rest.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Okay, George,” Candy’s voice had gotten smaller.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George went to the body of Curley’s wife, he stood over her before picking her up. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispered, “but we don’t need this to get any worse. I’m not gonna let this happen again. We’re gonna get that old house, and not you or anyone else is gonna stop us.” There was a fierce gleam in his eyes, as the defiant proclamation rang though him, and he picked her up, easily, like she was a leaf. He could smell her perfume, even over the general stink of the stable.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He brought her over to Candy, who put the noose around her neck, and then he placed her on the ground.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“We need to make sure this looks right,” he began, “I’ll start pulling her up, you tell me when her feet would have reached the top of the stool.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Okay”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George walked under the beam and grabbed the slack of the rope. He found a place to secure it, and began to raise the body up.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Hold it George!”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He stopped and watched as Candy began to meticulously pick off the bits of hay that clung to her dress. After a few minutes, he looked back to George and nodded. George knew then that Candy had made his decision.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George smiled.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He pulled her up a few more inches, and her feet came free from the ground as George took on her full weight. He brought her up to the proper height, and Candy flashed him a thumbs up. George tied the rope off on a support beam, keeping the knot simple, and released the rope.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Curley’s wife hung from the rafter in the dying afternoon. She swung in slow, loping circles, and her neck seemed longer than it once had been. The two men stood there, only for a moment, and then continued planning. The horses began to whinny and stamp their hooves in anxiety.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’s next, George? What do we do?”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George turned, and picked up the dead puppy from the haybale, kicking and scattering the hay where the woman and dog had been covered. He turned back to Candy.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“We gotta make sure this don’t land on Lennie. Lennie ain’t done this outta meanness. He probably just got confused. We can’t let nobody, ‘specially Curley, know what happened.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Candy nodded, and George continued.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I’ll go out to the bunk house, put the dog under Lennie’s bedroll. I’ll wait ‘til one of the guys comes in there, and then I’ll find it in front of one a them.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Candy turned his head to the side, trying to deduce the meaning.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“When I find it, I’ll start askin’ around about Lennie, and then I’ll tell the guys about this place I told him to go if we got in trouble. When I find him, I’ll make sure he don’t talk to nobody about Curley’s wife; I’ll convince him she kilt herself.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Curley continued nodding. “We gotta be careful George, we gotta get to that little house,” repeating it softly, as if it was a mantra.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now George was nodding. “I know Candy, and we will, but we gotta be all over Lennie from here on out. He can’t be nowhere or go nowhere without you or me.” He placed his hand on Candy’s shoulder, “We’re gonna do this, I promise, but we can’t make no more mistakes.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Candy was reassured, and he smiled, his mind on the little house, and the thick cream, and even the rabbits.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“As far as she’s concerned,” he motioned to the hanging girl, “you go out to the guys after I leave for Lennie, and tell them what you found. The longer you can hold off the better.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Okay George, I’ve got it.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George left the stable, tucking the puppy under his jacket like Lennie had done before. He got to the empty bunkhouse, placed the puppy under Lennie’s bedroll, and sat at the square table at the center of the room. He sighed audibly, and relaxed in the chair, picking up the pack of cards and setting his solitaire lay.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He had placed two aces when Slim entered the bunkhouse.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Hey there George,” Slim said, walking to his bunk.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Hey Slim, you seen Lennie?”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Naw, we been playing horseshoes for the past hour or so.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George used this opportunity to get up, and walked over to Lennie’s bunk. He moved the top blanket away, revealing the dead puppy.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Jesus Christ,” he said, allowing a hint of anger into his voice.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What is it George?” Slim asked.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Lennie kilt his pup.” He held up the dead puppy, limp in his hand, “I bet I know where he is.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Where’s that George?” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I tol’ him that if he got in trouble, like he done in Weed, that he was to go to a spot a few miles from here, where we camped out the night before we got to the ranch.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s just a dog George, why would he think he was in trouble?”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“He’s afraid I’ll be sore at him. You’ve seen him with that pup, he’s probably crying in the woods right now, thinking I’ll be cross with him. Dumb bastard.,” George forced a smile at the end of his small tirade.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Guess you better go get him then,” Slim returned the smile.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Guess you’re right.” George put on his hat and his jean jacket, and headed out the door of the bunkhouse. “Be back in a bit Slim.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Take your time, it’s Sunday.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George turned and left the bunkhouse, moving past the game of horseshoes, and giving Candy a slight nod as he walked by.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He walked through the ranch gates, and after about a mile, turned into the brush. He descended the slope, felt the crackle of fallen leaves under his feet, and began calling for Lennie. He thought about what had happened. He went over it in his head, checked for mistakes, things he had overlooked. Everything was fixed. As long as Candy and he could stay on Lennie, they’d make it through the month, take their money, and be on their way.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The little house. It had started as a dream, but become a reality so suddenly, so improbably. It was fate, he decided.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He reached the creek and a smile began to break across his face. He saw a small watersnake moving in the water, unsuspecting, toward a solitary wren. The snake’s head moved back and forth, but mistook the wren’s legs for reeds. George watched the wren slowly move its beak to strike, and he clapped loudly, scaring the bird to a sudden, jerky movement, which sent the snake in the opposite direction. The wren took George in, seemingly in annoyance, and beat its wings, taking off down river.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George began to shout again for Lennie, but then he saw him in the distance.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George began jogging over to him, calling out to him in the nicest tone he could manage. “Lennie! Lennie! It’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Lennie wasn’t moving.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He was on his knees facing the creek. His shoulders were slumped and he was staring of into the distant hills of the Gabilan Mountains.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>George stood at his side. “Lennie, hey, Lennie,” George felt that frustration rising within him, but checked it. He had to make Lennie understand about the girl. He had to make him understand about the plan, how it could continue. How there would still be the house and the cream and the rain on the roof and the rabbits, most of all the rabbits.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Lennie’s head began to rise, and he turned to face George. He broke into a grand, slow grin. It took up almost all of his face. “Ain’ you gonna give me Hell?” Lennie asked.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And then George saw the side of Lennie’s head, where the bullet had come through. There was a dark flash of blood all down Lennie’s side, but he kept looking at George with those big, dumb eyes, and George was screaming now, screaming and looking at the gun in his hand, and he dropped the gun, still screaming, and his hand began to shake. A quaking, rocking shudder over took his body, and he saw himself pulling the trigger, pulling it a thousand times and the blood and the shattered bones and brains, and always the shaking hand that never stopped.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">***</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">George pulled his head up from the bar. The month’s old beard on his face holding the drool from his mouth. Slim looked over at him, his brow furrowed.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">“Time to go George, I think you’ve had enough.”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 12.0px Times"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">George got up from the bar stool, laid his week’s wages on the bar, and let Slim walk him to the door. He looked down at his right hand, and put it in his pocket, hoping the shaking would ever stop, but knowing it wouldn’t.</span></p>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-52095706830943436502010-06-14T10:14:00.000-04:002010-06-14T10:15:34.463-04:00Working Toward an Ending: An Invocation<em>for A.F.</em><br /><br />Press into me<br />the thoughts in your eyes,<br />control my mood<br />with the tilt of your head,<br />looking up,<br />a face below mine,<br />sweet, tall, and smiling muse. <br /><br />The love invoked from your arms,<br />circled around my back,<br />clasping,<br />the inverted top of a Cupid’s heart,<br />is the feeling of stability<br />and home searched for<br />in vain, through the darker places,<br />finding truth in the faux-tiled floor of your kitchen,<br />knowing that the door<br />left through<br />remains open to me<br />in all climates,<br /><br />knowing innately,<br />that you love me,<br /><br />and that my devotion<br />is boundless.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-31651411092959688392010-05-17T13:41:00.002-04:002010-05-17T13:43:20.118-04:00What We Want for Our Kids<em>For George A. Romero in ‘78</em><br /><br />In this life-deserted mall, alone even with child,<br />the men have gone out to kill for the day.<br />We figured out that blunt trauma to the head works best,<br />bullet or baseball bat, simply a difference in exertion.<br /><br />There’s booze in this room, and my shotgun,<br />but no governing authority to inform me that<br />both are hazardous to my rounding stomach.<br /><br />I wait for the men, and hope they<br />aren’t scratched or bitten,<br />dragging their feet and forgetting my face.<br /><br />They’ve offered to kill it too, but I’m still on the fence.<br /><br />I wonder now whether I’d want the kid<br />in a world that was still alive,<br />without the growing horde of walking dead, and should that even matter.<br /><br />I fear my child will grow to resent the world we provided,<br />or that it will emerge with lifeless eyes<br />and a taste for flesh.<br /><br />Some mornings, as I vomit, and the men are hunting,<br />I see a survivor, her hair wild and fierce in a new city,<br />growing in myth, returning the dead to their graves,<br />a hero of songs, a terrible beauty.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-48836249227489538352010-05-07T09:47:00.002-04:002011-06-29T23:59:42.470-04:00Mother at Cana<em>For Kim, before the baby; and for Teddy, after.<br /></em><br />Start with fingers,<br />tapping nonsense in patient time<br />on a swollen stomach,<br />stretched to blossom and burst.<br /><br />Move to palms,<br />carrying their prize<br />a wine flask that might drop<br />before the celebration begins,<br />a gift for those who wait outside,<br />in anticipation of its sweetness.<br /><br />Drop your gaze to legs,<br />cracking with expansion,<br />preparing for the last steps<br />of a journey,<br />miles all earned<br />in the pains of carrying<br />children like crosses.<br /><br />Look at the face,<br />eyes closed and content,<br />even in this fracturing,<br />inevitable departure.<br /><br />Look at this woman,<br />remember her face, limbs,<br />before it began,<br />before she held an imperfect mirror<br />to her breast,<br /><br />before she gave you this gift.<br /><br />Passion is the word for suffering,<br />for sacrifice, love.<br />Amazing and beautiful<br />that meanings exist, creation,<br />the demanded burden of giving life,<br />the start of the story,<br /><br />the first miracle.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-78395273807188104742010-04-19T12:48:00.004-04:002010-04-19T13:57:51.521-04:00Dead HighwaysThe first breath tightened my chest, as the crisp October air hit my lungs. Johnny’s pale 1972 Catalina idled in the driveway. I called out goodbye to my parents, and heard them respond from the kitchen, as I clutched the stolen bottle of whiskey inside my jacket a bit closer to my body.<br /><br /><em>Sitting still as stone watching- watching</em><br /><em>People walking by you wondering why</em><br /><em>No one ever stops to talk </em><br /><em>or thinks about it-if they ever did</em><br /><br />The Morningstar is out tonight, and I catch its gleam through the branches and dead leaves of the twisted Maple in my front yard. The backend spits exhaust into the dark, and is lit up white as the car is shifted into reverse. The cab is full, and I open the door to the warmth and beats of the blaring radio, before taking my seat behind the driver.<br />“What’s up man?”<br />I’m not sure who the question comes from, our whether it was only one of them, but the second question is more direct, and comes from Marcus.<br />“You got it?”<br />“Yup.”<br />I expose the top of the bottle in my jacket, the amber liquid sloshing in its glass compartment. Smiles light up all around.<br />“Nice.”<br />We pull out of the driveway, and turn down the street, towards the woodsy parts of town. A CD is pulled from a black case, and the track comes on. It’s 2002, and we’re listening to Dave so much it’s in our bones; the off-kilter mash of sound pounding into our collective views of the high school experience.<br />The tracks roll on like the car we are in, and we banter back and forth about the week’s events. The lights on Park Road shift from regular intervals to only the occasional lone post, as the houses become fewer and farther between. My reflection is raised in the window with each passing light, the slight stubble on my chin the only evidence of my impending manhood. I think the girls are meeting us tonight, and the fascination of discovery or a chance to impress awaits.<br /><br /><em></em><em>What if God shuffled by?</em><br /><em>One day we might see</em><br /><em>Doing not a thing</em><br /><em>Breathing just to breathe</em><br /><em>We might find some reason</em><br /><em>But rushing around seems</em><br /><em>What's wrong with the world</em><br /><br />The houses are gone now, and everything outside the car is trees and bushes. I see the backpack on the floor of the car at Luke’s feet, he’s wearing his Birkenstocks, a last holdout against the end of the last summer before our Senior year.<br />“Lemme get that,” I say, pointing to the pack, and he hand’s it to me, the straps stressed from the thirty pack of Red Dog that it holds. There’s light metallic clanging as the cans jostle against each other. I unzip the main compartment and place the bottle of Jack inside, leaving the pack on my lap as we round the final corner.<br />The monastery looms in front of us; a large white building out of some southwestern school of design, with a red clay roof and black iron crucifixes throughout its stucco walls. All the lights are out, the brothers and sisters retiring after a long day of devotion.<br />The driveway and parking lot are located on the left, and Johnny looks twice before he kills the lights and pulls in. We draw down the music as well, the large car seemingly boating through the empty lot, making its way toward the tree-covered corner.<br /><br /><em>Lying on the roof counting</em><br /><em>The suns that fill the sky I wonder is</em><br /><em>Someone in the heavens</em><br /><em>Looking back down on me -I'll never know</em><br /><em>So much space to believe</em><br /><br />We pull into a spot so the car isn’t visible from the street. All of us are silent now, and we exit the car quietly, taking great care not to alert the sleeping monastery. I shoulder the backpack, feel its weight on my shoulders through my jacket, and we begin walking.<br />In the woods, a space opens up, lined with woodchips. The walkway cuts into the woods, creating a black hole that we enter, the sounds from our shoes shifting from pavement to path. As we move into the trees, we feel it is safe enough to begin whispering again.<br />“Which one is it again?” one of us questions.<br />“Hold on, I’ll know it when I see it,” comes the response.<br />The path is used by the members of the monastery for reflections, and every few hundred yards, there are benches and a wooden sign. The Stations of the Cross are carved into each piece of wood, as we make our way along His journey.<br />Our eyes adjust to the light as the ordeal begins, and we trudge along as He is condemned.<br />“Matt, you sure about this?” someone, probably Marcus, asks in the dark.<br />The stars push light through the branches, and I watch the blue light cascade across his face as he walks behind me.<br />“Yup, let’s just hope the girls are as well,” I reply.<br />We pass a few more stations, and I begin to wonder exactly what it is I’m looking for. They see my concern.<br />“We didn’t pass it?”<br />“No, I don’t think so… but we’re close. Be patient.” I try to sound confident, but I’m not convinced it works.<br /><br /><em>Walking through the wood</em><br /><em>No cares in the world</em><br /><em>The world SHE'S come to play</em><br /><em>She's all mine just for a day</em><br /><em>There's not a moment to lose in the game</em><br /><em>Don't let the troubles in your head</em><br /><em>Steal too much time you'll soon be dead</em><br /><em>So play</em><br /><br />The Fifth Station. His friends help Him carry the burden. The carving shows Simon straining under the cross, and behind this, a small dirt path leads further into the woods. The path the senior at school told me about. The secret passed on.<br />“This is it.”<br />“Nice.”<br />“Let’s go.”<br />The path is tighter than the previous one, and the occasional pricker-bush snags our pant legs. We walk in silence for roughly five minutes, doubt again setting into our minds. This place can’t exist… The girls will never find it. At some point, I stop, and Johnny’s weight hits me from behind.<br />“Dammit!” he says, “What’s the problem?”<br />“Hold on,” I say.<br />I thought I heard noises ahead, but it seems to be only the last few birds sticking around before falling asleep; a far cry from the sirens and lights of the town cops.<br />We walk for another few minutes, and then the air itself seems to lighten. The path explodes into an open world. The light from the stars paints everything blue, and the low moon is finally visible in the distance.<br />We have arrived at the Dead Highways. For miles, there are two roads running into the distance. A large amount of brush divides what used to be a Jersey barrier meridian. Weeds burst though widening cracks along the paved surface.<br />We walk out into the opening, amazed at what has been left for us. High fives and smiles are exchanged, and we begin talking again, convinced that the protection afforded by this abandoned place is absolute.<br />I place the backpack on the concrete, glad to no longer carry the load. I remove the bottle, uncap it, and take the first swig. The bite hits my nostrils immediately, and the burning in my throat descend all the way to my stomach, where the warmth lingers.<br />We pass it around, the four of us, and wait.<br />“Let’s hope they make it,” someone, Lou probably, mutters.<br />“They will.”<br />All of us are in agreement. They have to get here, it’s so perfect.<br />The bushes in that divide the two stretches of road rustle, and we turn in unison.<br />A ragged shape shuffles from the darkness. It gets closer, and we can here the ramblings of his madness.<br />When he sees us, sees the drink in our hands, his eyes open wide, and his focus is solely on us.<br />“Hey boys,” his cadence is as inconsistent as his gait, “Whatcha got there?”<br />“Nothing, man,” Marcus replies, “Be cool.”<br />“Awww, you ain’t got nothing for me? What I done?”<br />His beard is mostly white, but every once and a while, patches of black catch the light of the moon, and I can’t tell if he’s been drinking already.<br />“C’mon man, we don’t want any trouble.”<br />“Me neither boys, me neither. We could trade sumptin’? Maybe?”<br />“Whaddyou got for us?” Luke says.<br />The homeless man looks hurt, “You boys been here before?”<br />“No,” I say, “First time.”<br />“Good, good. If you walk that way,” he points south to where the road disappears, “You’ll hit the real highway, ‘cept you’ll be on a bridge above it. It’s a nice spot, cool.”<br />By his grin we can tell that he is proud of himself for having this knowledge.<br />“Ok, thanks man,” Johnny says, clearly trying to get rid of him, “here’s a beer, have a good night okay?”<br />Johnny rummages through the backpack and hands him two Red Dog’s. The homeless guys reaches for them greedily, and shambles back to his bush at a quickened pace.<br />“Weird,” someone says.<br />“Yup.”<br /><br /><em>I find it hard to explain how I got here</em><br /><em>I think I can, I think I can</em><br /><em>And then again, I will falter</em><br /><em>Dream</em><br /><br />“So what do you think? Take a walk?”<br />“Let’s wait for the girls.”<br />As if on cue, three shapes emerge from the path we took earlier. By the giggling and the tone of voices they are easily identified.<br />“Over here girls,” Luke calls, beckoning with the bottle in his hand.<br />There is small talk, and drinking, and the guarded pretense and competition that goes along with almost any social interaction at this time in our lives.<br />The drinks take hold, courage swells, and I reach out to cup the elbow of the girl who has laughed during our conversation the most.<br />“Let’s take a walk I whisper,” letting go of her elbow, and motioning with my outstretched hand.<br />“Okay,” she replies, the hint of a smile noticeable even in her voice.<br />We break from the group, although I’m sure the lingering curiosity left by the bum’s claim will be enough to bring us all out there eventually.<br />There is small talk as we move down the road and toward the moon. It is arching higher in the sky, stopping the stars behind its glow from being seen. Other than the road, its cracks and refuse, everything around us is nature. The road stands out like a scar or shame.<br />At some point in the walk, she takes my hand. The space between our palms a haven of sudden warmth in the cooling air.<br />I smile and wonder if she is doing the same. It is quiet here; the sounds of our footsteps on the broken blacktop the only noise, the birds having recently fled.<br />Ahead, the brush and trees break away into the open air. The trees form a V on the horizon and suddenly, there is only the road.<br />To our left and right, nothing but dark blue air. Our hands break from one another, and we walk to the fence that now lines both sides of the highway. My fingers reach into the rusted rungs, tiny diamonds between myself and the sight below.<br />We are standing over I-84, and I know exactly where we are. The cars speed by below us, and I suddenly feel exposed. I step back, thinking I will be seen, exposed.<br />She turns and laughs.<br />“How many times have you driven by here Matt?”<br />“Jeez… Hundreds I guess.”<br />“Exactly, and how many times have you even looked up here.”<br />“Never.”<br />She’s right of course. We’re safe here, undetected. Yet we are observing the world. It’s like a secret painting with the eyes removed. We belong to this world, but are not a part of it. It is electric.<br />She comes to me, hands at my waist, and circles her arms around me. The kiss is sweet, the faint taste of whiskey on my breath and tongue. I place my hand behind her head, the victim of so many films and book covers my only instruction in these matters.<br />She removes her mouth from mine, smiling, and turns her back to me in my arms. Her body is warm, connecting to mine from foot to shoulder, and we watch the world pass beneath us for a while.<br /><br /><em>Out of the darkness comes light like a flash</em><br /><em>You think you can, you think you can</em><br /><em>Sometimes that is the problem</em><br /><em>Dream little darling, dream</em><br /><em>Spinning on the wind</em><br /><em>The leaf fell from the limb</em><br /><em>But everyday should be a good day to die</em><br /><em>Oh, all fall down</em><br /><em>It won't be too long now</em><br /><em>Every fire dies<br /></em><br />When the rest of the group arrives, their experience is similar, but not the same. Discussions are had regarding various crimes we could commit here, the thrill of being undetected hatching plans in our wild brains.<br />We walk back, I take her hand, and the group chatters.<br />The night passes comfortably, and we eventually realize it’s time to go. Johnny rattles his keys, impatient from not drinking his fill.<br />We trudge, all of us, back to the empty lot at the monastery. I give her a short kiss goodbye, and a promise to call tomorrow.<br />“C’mon, Romeo.”<br />“Yup.”<br />We get into the Catalina and leave the parking lot.<br />The conversations are fewer now, we are tired and contentedly drunk, and I look out the window, searching for the Morningstar. I find it in the window, reach my finger to where it is, and watch as it follows the car. I wonder about the red lights on the highway, the real one, the cars going off into the distance, and their passengers. The lights are white as they approached, becoming red as they left, finally disappearing from our sight.<br />I look back to the window; the Morningstar obscured by the trees, and close my eyes until we get home, reveling in my burgeoning secret life.<br /><br /><em>Oh I think I can, I think I can</em><br /><em>Dream little darling dream</em><br /><em>Spining on the wind</em><br /><em>The leaf fell from the limb</em>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-45546985870265828032010-04-12T08:01:00.002-04:002010-04-12T08:25:20.905-04:00Nightmares in Hugo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxA5W69HiFryEpmUlRt4RPBKw7a3QEfn4cnlgLH8tHw5Kf9tGYVthEiUAzlMRV6o-5NbzmFPSwAxVxh-7wokV_kLSDcvIsPhZCWjsowL6gAdFtxCAhzzgDDCQkElcC6vomondp8A05QNj/s1600/Triggering.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459226039993098242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 212px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFxA5W69HiFryEpmUlRt4RPBKw7a3QEfn4cnlgLH8tHw5Kf9tGYVthEiUAzlMRV6o-5NbzmFPSwAxVxh-7wokV_kLSDcvIsPhZCWjsowL6gAdFtxCAhzzgDDCQkElcC6vomondp8A05QNj/s320/Triggering.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>While searching for triggers<br />in an Iowa I’ve only read about,<br />my gaze finds a painted metal silo<br />above a ruined field.<br />A wooden ladder, laden with rot and splinters<br />is propped against a broken rusted opening near the top.<br />Barbed rungs catch and rip<br />the white flesh of soft hands,<br />but I climb to the hole.<br />Orange metal flakes break and flutter<br />to yellow ground as I enter,<br />and a spiral, cast iron catwalk<br />drops to blackness.<br />I descend, hear the sloshing<br />footsteps, the flailing movements.<br />A corpse walks and waits for the young<br />in a three foot puddle of murky<br />water, sloughed skin.<br />I dip one toe in cold wetness<br />dripping blood and tears,<br />a rotting hand finds my face<br />and fills my scream with cold fingers,<br />pulling me under,<br />with what I own.</div>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-70522959257826497992010-04-06T08:28:00.000-04:002010-04-06T08:29:36.259-04:00Israel in Shotgun<em>For J.W.<br /></em><br />Riding across burning macadam,<br />safe in this car,<br />my friend rests his feet on the side mirror<br />and dreams that angels crawl up his legs.<br /><br />Hunched and steering, leather seats<br />collecting sweat, I lean forward to<br />cool my back, as the AC flutters<br />but can’t reach the heat.<br /><br />I work so hard, and struggle to grow grass<br />while he cultivates roses and Jacob.<br /><br />My hair long, with hints of red,<br />my soft-spoken passenger<br />grows a blonde beard —<br />almost invisible.<br /><br />He sees a world I don’t understand,<br />is tickled by angels, while my face itches<br />from this thick hair, and the wind<br />never cools my sweating back.<br /><br />But I am not jealous,<br />I drive with my brother.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-38410560694304414732010-03-10T08:22:00.001-05:002010-03-10T08:34:52.375-05:00Whatever Legacy Works<em>For G.S.</em><br /><br />I saw the little girl’s ears flower<br />after the poet taught her to curse,<br />“Fuck” and “Prick” pollinating<br />her six-year-old brain. Maybe blooming only<br />later at home, when stubbing a toe,<br />or losing patience with an older brother.<br />The horrified mother, soap in hand, swearing<br />off poetry readings, and the smiles<br />of wizened and wilting old men,<br />as her daughter’s eyes water<br />at the taste of Dove and the power<br />of sound, word, immortality.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-51527784000483876552010-03-08T09:00:00.000-05:002010-03-08T09:06:32.592-05:00TrainingWet black roots crack open orange and soft,<br />exposed to 6AM air and the cold blade of my shovel. <br />The first hole of the day, but Gags is sweating from his 10 mile bike ride commute<br />to the cold and coffee at Begley Landscaping, outskirts of Hartford, cloudy late spring. <br /><br />All the old men, except Gags, would take their “sweet fucking time,”<br />pruning at standstill, dragging tools to another cigarette break. <br />Gags is John Henry, Dean Moriarty, a sweaty Bill Gates. <br />“This isn’t a job,” he tells me, dirt and root flying from the pit we’re creating,<br />“this is training.”<br /><br />I heard he tried to teach his dog to race,<br />holding him by the leash<br />out the driver’s side window,<br />and he got him running<br />faster than 45 miles per hour.<br /><br />He ran too, and spoke and drank<br />and worked with fury,<br />a blur of tools and sweat<br />and pint glasses,<br />impossible<br />to tell his age.<br /><br />I worked here with my “college hands”<br />and guys who smoked Lucky Strikes with no filters. <br />I spent nights with friends,<br />explaining goals and plans,<br />and Mike Gagnon simply trained.<br /><br />Back on some doctor’s lawn, April morning, amid soil and visible breaths,<br />Gags rests on his shovel, picks up the root, orange and flaking from its rotted center,<br />“It just gave up, Matt” <br />He throws the root and resumes at full clip, grinning.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-18573591606276623822010-03-02T07:42:00.000-05:002010-03-02T07:43:00.686-05:00EvolutionWading through the sea of cars<br />Towards Nordstrom’s and Penney’s and Filene’s<br />Under the gulls of macadam,<br />I’m frightened.<br />If Monarch butterflies find daisy and lilac<br />In Brazil and Boston,<br />Why can’t these birds find the coast?<br />Its beaches are not far<br />In this Ocean State.<br />Why would they leave<br />That dark hulk with crushing foam,<br />The smell of sand and salt,<br />For black paved fields<br />And speeding machines?<br />Perhaps they’re aware of something we’re not,<br />And maybe they see a future,<br />Perched and planning on rusty lampposts,<br />Over a flat lake<br />Filled with dead cars and commerce.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-81027026555907258332010-03-01T15:04:00.004-05:002010-03-02T07:34:00.711-05:00The UndeniableI deny the music of the Elms, the Poplar’s<br />song of hope,<br />and beg for beauty in the pocked concrete,<br />the poured macadam. I strain for planks of dead<br />wood, mathematically arranged, built things.<br /><br />A fender strikes a pole and leaves chrome<br />paint and a sustained reverb, a tone.<br />I smoke pulped wood and shards of fiberglass<br />and know it kills me, marginally, but can’t<br />deny the burning of leaves as retribution,<br />my own forest fire which ashes my body as well.<br /><br />I stammer of myself, porch bound,<br />the last cigarette before bed forcing me out<br />into the night, its wandering skunks,<br />its Whitman and Thoreau at one with nature,<br />while I forget the names of trees,<br />and litter almost pathologically.<br /><br />Yet I can’t repress the eddies and sandbars of childhood,<br />the play of sticks as swords,<br />the noise a blade of grass makes between thumb<br />and palm when blown on, or even the dunes that cry as they recede,<br />waving frantically their reedy hair, sandwiched<br />between progress and origins.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-90584974055434506042010-02-19T07:40:00.002-05:002010-02-19T08:02:07.696-05:00Houses<a href="http://media.sacbee.com/static/weblogs/real_estate/home-construction.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 449px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 329px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://media.sacbee.com/static/weblogs/real_estate/home-construction.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">Layered walls<br />with stucco used<br />to patch a hole.<br /><br />Construction on top of workers’<br />cigarette butts and<br />the phlegm of burnt lungs.<br /><br />Empty coffee cups crushed beneath<br />Wolverine boots or the treads of<br />Bobcat diesels.<br /><br />Beams and nails,<br />the scattered flesh<br />that goes into a home.<br /><br />Plaster chips and graded earth,<br />smoothed-over graves,<br />archaeological insignificance.<br /><br />Life as document:<br />time capsules of iron<br />for alien audiences.</span></div>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-33066147961276681382010-01-30T13:14:00.006-05:002010-02-02T16:16:54.390-05:00Angelus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://artfiles.art.com/5/p/LRG/8/846/O7MY000Z/jean-fran%C3%A7ois-millet-angelus.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 342px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://artfiles.art.com/5/p/LRG/8/846/O7MY000Z/jean-fran%C3%A7ois-millet-angelus.jpg" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They stand in the rough skin of God,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the worked yellow bracken,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ankle high, bled pale.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They yield to barn and bell,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hands that worship the architecture of creation,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the strength of dead wood and iron work.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Slats and struts, metal bound,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">protect stores </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">of dead </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hay bales, dead corn and grain.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A dried-blood monument</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">commands lives</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">during the pale, orange wave of morning.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A different landscape</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">in dark indigo night,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Royal purple,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">which mends the broken skin.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The wooden frame belies </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">this painted scene, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-size:+0;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the absence.</span></span></span>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-89870561237435493302010-01-28T10:55:00.001-05:002010-01-28T17:59:42.850-05:00Gift for the Darkness<a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/379232451_1e136042af.jpg?v=0"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 375px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/379232451_1e136042af.jpg?v=0" /></a><br /><div>Representation in wood, the chieftain’s painted guise<br />covers an ancient oak,<br />or pre-disease riddled elm.<br />The shell exists to inform, to show and document the past,<br />while speaking volumes toward our legacy of death.<br /><br />Some will see the wooden savage, carved and ready to occupy a museum,<br />or smoke shop entrance.<br /><br />Others will find discrepancy between a modern world,<br />its cars and sidewalks, and the old and superior way of life.<br /><br />But from this plastic chair, I’m only reminded<br />of our obsession with the dead things,<br />that we exist in a country of ghosts,<br />dead wood, carved to fit our fancy,<br />and metal cages that burn our earth from the inside,<br />a horrible black-blood transfusion.<br /><br />People pass through the frame, blind to the casualties that surround them,<br />desensitized to the graveyard society we’ve created,<br />shuffling and bemoaning a world that we don’t<br />hold in sway,<br />that we haven’t yet bent to our control. While everywhere, our trophies scream their finite silence.</div>Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120188977007671975.post-11751432713698981842010-01-27T11:15:00.001-05:002010-02-02T16:15:53.937-05:00EmilyThe hand falls, turned upward in the shallow pool<br />created from the rest of the body.<br />Strange that a small stream<br />carries so much weight in water,<br />grinding slowly at its bottom rock.<br /><br />Grass and reeds<br />surround the pale hand,<br />the exposed palm.<br /><br />Wisps of floating hair, waving<br />as if blown from wind on a journey,<br />a skyward ascension.<br /><br />The wrists, white<br />in contrast to the dark bottom,<br />flesh and rock.<br />Colored bracelets encircle<br />the dead girl’s arm.<br />Exterior growth rings, honoring her age.<br /><br />Did she know about the justice that would follow?<br />Could she forsee the layers<br />of dialogue,<br />noir,<br />allegiance,<br />symbols?<br /><br />The clues placed in passionate able hands,<br />only through storm and thunder,<br />hurting and leaving?<br /><br />That love could be so thick<br />it became a place to be feared?<br /><br />That words of little meaning could key her killer,<br />free an angry soul?<br />Tug,<br />Pin,<br />Poor Frisco,<br />and Brick.Mr. Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15969622573264846998noreply@blogger.com0