I sit slumped in a flimsy chair as a
blizzard rages on outside my window.
A woman’s cough comes through
the side of the wall, making me feel
anxious.  

Did she hear me clipping my toenails?

On this desk where I write sit three,
neatly-folded towels with an outnumbered
wash cloth on top.  It looks content.  
Actually it looks happy.  

Peaceful…  

I’m a liar.  All I do is lie, lie, lie.  I lie to everyone
including myself.  But I won’t lie to you.

I wouldn't dare lie to you.  

You know why?  You're me.  You're a little
mad inside. Otherwise you wouldn't be
sitting here spending time with me.  

You and I don't care about trivial things. No we don't. 
As a matter of fact that's what brought us here in the first place.  

When I was eight years old
I... I put on the best
rock ‘n’ roll concert ever.  I did it all behind
my parents' house.  My guitar was a
yellow Wiffle bat.  

All I need is that guitar.  
If... If I were to get up and leave and
go get my guitar, would...

Would you come
and watch me perform?

Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
    
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?






I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.

Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  I sit entranced by the rhythmic force of the cargo train rolling by.  This is the third train in 25 minutes, and with each pass, the sound of the heartbeat steals my attention away from the drunken chaos around me.  I glance at the north wall where a small, golden, shadow flickers with each pulsation.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.  Deh-bee.   The cargo train seems to disappear as unexpectedly as it arrived, and now I am pulled back into the scene around me – drunk, rowdy bar-hags and middle-aged men with bellies expanding at a rate too fast than can be restrained by their tucked-in Milwaukee Brewers t-shirts and their ******* Green Bay Packers jerseys.  I re-focus my attention to the crew with whom I share this table.

The CEO’s.  How is it that God blessed me with such an opportunity as to break bread with these four great, inspiring, and humble men?  NO WAY IN HELL is this a coincidence - this is undoubtedly God’s work at hand.  Our waitress walks quickly by, and I notice the uncomfortable glance she casts in our direction, her eyes focused on Vince’s t-shirt that reads in large, red letters, “CEO. Christians Encouraging Others.”

Vince. Boisterous and fearless, he can be relied upon to know everything about anything, and for the benefit of all within ear-shot, he never shuts-the-****-up about his faith or about those who lack it.  Thank God for Vince because without his leadership during our five-hour drive here, I would know nothing about tire pressure, ideal gas mileage, ****, the meaning of great music (a.k.a. R.E.M.), or how to deal with nagging kids. He is a truly model Christian, taking every opportunity to remind us of our calling in this world, passionately ending most conversations with, “This is Satan’s domain - the end of the world as we know it.”  When we were one hour away from the campgrounds, Vince disproved my previously-developed theory that he could not possibly be any more of a puke.  After making sure he still had everyone’s attention, he pulled out his favorite hat and enthusiastically adjusted it on his head.  Featuring another clever acronym, the oversized, navy-blue trucker mesh cap accented with gold rope trimming proudly sports, “C.I.A.”  Christian in Action.  

I share a cabin with Vince and these other heads of households.  These fellows come here once a year “to get away from the wives.”  One of the other fellows with whom I have the pleasure of sharing the cabin is Paul.  Paul forewarned us that he suffers from irritable bowel syndrome, a claim substantiated by the bag of “**** powder” that he proudly held up in the air during the ride here for all to see.  My brother Tom also comes along in order to partake in the outdoor activities, trip paid in full by my older brother, Richard, who has financially supported Tom for as long as Tom has been able to utter the words, “I can’t afford it.”  Thanks to ****’s Christian generosity, Tom’s soul has been saved along with all of Tom’s money as his mortgage was paid off over a decade ago.  Unlike Tom, **** is a tortured soul who suffers from PTSD.  He is also a recovering (to be more accurate, “recovered”) addict, having been cured “just like that” (snap!) when he found Christ in the 70’s.  

Deh-bee. Deh-bee. Deh-bee.  Another cargo train…  Why did I agree to this?  The waitress comes by again, this time with our food.  “Thanks, doll,” Vince says with a wink.  Embarrassed for her, I look away, staring once again at the flickering light on the north wall.  My gaze is suddenly disrupted by the steamy, ivory dish of food placed in front of me.  French fries, bathed in a lake of runny ketchup, sit enticingly in the middle of my plate.  To the left are mountains of milky-white coleslaw, and to the right sit boulders of golden-baked cod stacked one upon the other, towering high as if built to honor to the gods.

Without hesitation I grab the pale, cloth napkin and blanket my legs.  I find myself clenching the sparkling fork as I drive it into the base of the cod shrine.  Ketchup runs everywhere, and as I lift the bloodied mess above my plate, I become too distracted by the sound of Vince’s voice to notice that the cod never makes it to my mouth.  Vince stops and stares at the blunder of food now back on my plate, laughter erupting from the bowels of his cholesterol-encased belly.  

Debbie. Debbie. Debbie.  No train.  I look down at my plate again, the contents of my plate further bathed in ketchup.  My appetite is gone.  All I can think about is that frigid November night two years ago when I found her lying dead, body still warm, in our gazebo. When I saw the back of her head all over the floor, I knew it was too late.  “Debbie and I were going to go out for fish that Friday, but I didn't get home early enough…”  I hadn’t realized that I said anything aloud, but the sudden silence around the table quickly awakens me to reality.  

With a mouth full of chewed cod, Vince looks intently at me and raises his arms. “Man, don’t let him trick you!  He’s out for everyone, and he’s toying with ya.  Shoo him away. Christ is in you. This is Satan’s domain, and he’s messing with your head.”  

His voice trails off as my mind wanders back to that night.

“Greg, are you listening to me?  Cast these thoughts away, man!  The devil is trying to ensnare you. Call upon…”

“Hey, Vince.”  I cut him off.  “The other day I saw this sign in front of a church, and your hat just reminded me of it. The sign said, ‘It’s hard to stumble when you’re down on your knees.’  You know why your hat reminds me of that sign?  

"Let me tell you, Vince.  Let me tell you why your ******' hat reminds me of that ******' sign. Cause your hat says, ‘C.I.A.’”

Vince, silent for the first time since I’ve known him, responds to my comment with a blank stare.

“C.I.A.  ****... In… ***…  Get it?  You see, you’re never going to stumble, Vince.  You’re already head down, on your knees, taking it hard in the ***.”

I step inside and get in line.
The first thing that catches my eye is a sign that reads: Subway issues codes for a free cookie as a thank-you for completing a survey. Ask a Sandwich Artist for details.
I think to myself, “Sandwich Artist?” You gotta be ******* kidding me.
Who is this ultra superior, ******* that is responsible for this?
Why can’t we accept our job titles for what they are?
We always need to jazz things up so we feel a little more important and less-judged,
but we become more inferior with this kinda ****.

Society is a mind ****.

There are two sandwich artists behind the counter, and one is rambling on about her birthday that is in a few days.
She is SO excited.
Standing to her left is another artist, masterfully creating a sandwich for the gentleman in front of me.
She closes her eyes and replies to her partner with great wit, “Hold a second - I’m throwing you a party right now in my head.”
She opens her eyes, and our eyes unfortunately meet.
Son-of-a *****!
This is making me really uncomfortable.
It’s taking all of my might to not give her what she is clearly hoping for - a smile.
I do.
****, I'm a *****.
The gentleman in front of me doesn’t hear a thing.
He is too busy to notice.
Look at that perfectly, tailored suit.
He must be important.
Mr. Important’s index finger is tap-dancing all over the screen of his fancy phone.
He sure likes his phone, but don’t we all these days?
Technology is the ****, and we are the ******.
But not me!
I have a flip phone.
Yup.
I bought it for $29.99 three years ago.
The salesman pulled it out from storage, and the box had dust on it.
He looked at it as if it was an ancient artifact.
It is.
And I bought it…

It hasn’t been more than a minute, and Miss Birthday Girl starts to ramble some more about her party.
The witty artist closes her eyes and replies,
“Hold a second.  I’m throwing another party for you in my head.”
You’ve gotta be ******* me…
What a redundant swine.
I turn my head to the right and look at the lively advertisement of Coke’s product, Fuze.
It’s a pretty sign for what it’s worth.
I just stare at the **** thing and act as though I haven’t heard her ******* comment.
I continue gawking at the word, Fuze.
My eyes gaze over to the accompanying graphic of a sweaty bottle of some ambiguously-flavored iced-tea.
I probably look like someone who is easily distracted by shiny, vibrant things.
Or someone who is REALLY thirsty and is going to buy me some of that Fuze.
But I am not thirsty at all…
Just angry.
However I do want a large cup to fill, so I can fill it with Fuze and toss it in her face.
With that thought, I figure it is be best for me to leave.
So I head for the door and exit.
I had parked my vehicle across the street, and as I walk towards it, her voice endlessly
repeats in my head.
I sit down in my seat, noticing a plastic bag of dried apricots tucked in the cup holder.
I open the bag, and there are only six left.
Five remain stuck to the bottom as one plops into my palm.
I put the one in my mouth; the flavor is to be expected as well as the texture.
The chewy consistency reminds me of cartilage.
This must be what it feels like to eat an ear.

A small ear, maybe even a lobe.

Nonetheless an ear.

Now for dessert! Xanax.
I unscrew the top of the little, red, metal container that I carry with me at all times -
like a devout Catholic with her rosary.
I place one tab on my tongue, the sweet tang a perfect complement to my lunch.

Maybe, just maybe, I don’t need anti-anxiety pills any more.

Maybe I just need a new phone like the rest of the world.

Na…**** that.

A lonely bead of sweat rolls
from his widows-peak and tumbles
down the center of his forehead.
It comes to an abrupt stop,
resting on the tip of his nose.

He doesn’t even notice - he’s too
distracted futzing with his chair.  
The bead clenched on with
all of its might and then finally
succumbing to gravity, it hits
the floor. SPLAT!  

His lips become tangled in a web
of frustration.  Gooey, white,
cotton substance evolves in the
corners of his dry mouth.  His
tongue slithers out and scoops
up the milky residue.

Purple, worm-like shapes
protrude around his
temples and forehead.
His face begins to glisten, and his
white dress shirt looks like a
wet napkin.  He’s unmercifully at
war with his chair.

Finally the chair surrenders...

He sits down, tilts his head, and
uses his right forearm as a towel
to soak up the now-noticeable beads that
are slowly working their way towards
his thick, bushy brows.

His attention turns to the stylish, black
case that lies by his side.  The audience
members shield their eyes as the
beams of the stage lights are captured by
the curves of this beautiful tomb.

Eagerness pumps through
my veins as he reaches down
and unbuckles the case, gently
removing his instrument from its vault.

Heavily antiqued with a moderate
amount of crazing, the wood grain is
perfectly marred with its perpendicular
grooves. The colors are warm with a
golden brown tint just like his skin.

He rests the violin on his
lap and leans the bow against
his right thigh.  He takes a few, deep
breaths to perfect his posture.

His belly begins to recede.

His chest puffs out.

His shoulders slightly roll back.

His spine becomes *****.

He places the violin under his chin.
With his left hand he holds the neck,
gently pressing his fingers into the
strings.  His right arm soon follows,
bringing the bow to a quick and
delicate stop a short distance below
where his fingers lie.

Suddenly everything becomes silent.

He stares over the heads of those in
the audience, not making a single
move.  He’s in a trance-like state,
like a crocodile at a river bank
patiently waiting to lunge at a
wild boar.

Then, without warning, he strikes the first note!

His body jerks forward, backward,
left-to-right, moving around in all directions,
like a crazed man trying to undue his
straightjacket. He clenches his eyes with all
his might and puckers his lips, trying to hold
in the emotions that are imprisoned, but he can’t.  
A single, victorious tear escapes from the madness.

As the music further consumes him, he plays
faster and faster. Each note takes him higher
towards the heavens. The bow pierces the hearts
of the angels and the gods, bringing them together.
Tightly gripping one another’s hands, they begin
to waltz.
  
They dance on a thick stage built from the prayers and
dreams of mankind’s wickedness.  Even the beast
from below is dancing.  An arm reaches down into
the depths and pulls him up to join the gathering.  
She grabs his hand and waist, spinning him around
until he becomes dizzy and falls backwards.  
They both laugh and begin to dance again
for all eternity.  





I lean forward and turn the ****
counterclockwise, eliminating the commercial
that follows the song he just played.  I look
over at him and tell him he’s one a hell of a
performer.  He humbly replies, “Thank you.”  
We continue to drive and listen to the radio.  
I couldn’t wait for his next performance.

Haughty eyes bestow a daunting glare,
dismissing true beauty.
Their muffled conversations
reverberate inside my prism.  
Carcasses lie in a stiffened, upright position,
indicating everlasting submission.
My future is bleak; my past stalks me from behind.
Am I not a righteous soul?
Have I desecrated my body; your body?
Have I defecated on the holy scriptures?
Oh, what do I know?
I’m just a fly stuck in a window….