Childhood was the greatest time for Timothy, and he remembers it that way. No disposition on the fact that his parents divorced when he was eight. Just old enough to develop a mental connection with the idea of a union. So when he was ten, his father remarried, moved to a farm in the southeast, and tried living off the land. The topic of an ecological environment had hit the internet heavier than global warming hit the ice caps. And everyone was pursuing happiness with steep drops in city living, and an up swing in rural living.
Timothy's mom refused to believe it though. She wrote about such cultural climates, the invasion of neo-british pop boy bands, the decline of football, and the hippie lifestyle clawing its way back up the columns of big city papers. So when the recession hit, and it suddenly became cool to dress like a homeless person, she saw the disgust, moved overseas and focused on the world-political spectrum.
“Societal fads be ******! I'm going to do something that actually matters.” And she did.
Timothy Glasser, age 82 looks back on that moment with pride.
“There was a sense that she had the ***** to change the world. With Russia building up Imperial popularity, it was cool to be big. America was on the decline by the word of all the heavy-hitter magazines.
“That was when I started to take my life serious. She had shown me all the would-be Bob Dylans, Lennons, Hunter S. Thompsons. She would say, 'These kids have all the brass words of a ****** who can bite down ******* the world, but they don't have the actual brass. Men who are not recognized for what they've done have the brass. Hell, women have ten more pounds of that kind of brass!'
'I would laugh, but she was serious. I think she thought I was too masculine to understand what she was saying.”
When Timothy's father moved him and his little sister, Sunni Glasser out to the backwater community of Oggta-Cornelius, there was a certain relief in his demeanor. In a matter of months the country way of living had worn down his impatience to a sluggish pace.
“Greg was my father's name. He's been raised in a similar place in the Midwest, but the slowness of that life got to him in his teens so he left for the city. I guess when he met my step-mom he found the good ol' girl that he'd been trying to cling to since he left home. And it was Sunni's choice to come with us. She always had the same kind of 'brass' Mom had, but there was a closeness she shared with Dad that adventure couldn't break. It's a **** shame too. But once the slow pace of the backwater hit Sunni, she rebelled. It was a catastrophe to watch her and Dad argue over the most petty things you've ever seen. The way our step-mom, Claire would fold clothes or how early she had to wake up in the morning for school. Five o'clock, five days a week, and sometimes Dad would wake her on Saturday just to punish her for talking back. There was always blood in the water.”
Timothy's face settles, his lower lip curls, and his eyelids clinch for a moment before he changes his position in his chair.
“Is everything okay, Timothy?” I ask.
There is a pause, almost as if he is reliving what he was just describing.
“**** has always been real, you've been fantasizing.” I hear him say. He refuses to look at me, let alone answer my question.
“Mr. Glasser?” I ask again.
He exhales suddenly, eyes watery, and lets out a sigh.
“Let's talk about Sunni. I never really talk about her much, and I think now is a good time. Don't you?”
I nod in agreement and try to give him a smile.
He still refuses to look me in the eye.
“When Sunni was in first grade, she was beginning to prove to be a bit of a handful. There was a small patch of corn out back. Maybe half an acre Dad keep for us to put up for the winter. Sunni was about seven years old around this time and she had the idea to make crop circles. Now I was out with my friends, played football in those days so I didn't have the time to be home all the time. Dad and Claire kept themselves busy with the work about the place, so Sunni got bored real fast. One day during the summer, Dad went to the store to get some groceries. A friend of his came up to him and said, 'I was up in the plane yesterday and I saw something strange in your cornfield. Like some kind of crop circle. Weird ain't it?'
“This rattled my Dad's brain for a few minutes until he got home and saw the two-by-four with rope tied to either end of the thing. Sunni was staring at the clouds and Dad walked over to her, and yanked her up off the grass. 'What are you doing flattening my corn for? Don't you know that's goin' to save us money in the long run?” She just stared at him. Not dumbfounded, just intrigued.
“That was kind of the starting point of their bickering. She had blonde hair running to the base of her skull brushed down neatly. A subtle blush in her cheek from the sun. And she always wore a dress, especially if it had sunflowers on it. She brought life to that house.
“On her tenth birthday, Mom sent her a touch screen phone, an iPhone, I think it was called with a two-year contract. It was so long ago minor facts like that seem to hang on for no reason.”
Timothy shuffles in his chair. Then clears his throat.
“Would you like to take a break, Timothy?” I ask him.
“I ignored most of the arguments Sunni and dad had after I graduated high school. As soon as fall semester started at Cornelius College I fled the backwater and started by life near the OceanFront. Oggta-Cornelius was divided into two sections: the Backwater and OceanFront. And like a sports rivalry there was always trash talk about the tax bracket you were in or how much you worked. After the first few weeks for sneaking into bars and partying on campus, the fun died down because of the arrests. I almost got caught twice, but my sixth sense for trouble tingled at just the right time. When the middle of the semester hit I was over-booked with mid-terms and reading assignments. I actually lived in my dorm then. Never really left the place. And soon fall semester was over. Nothing worth mentioning now. Sunni and I texted often, but she had become a brat and I wanted alone time to learn what I'd read. For everything literary to go beyond just test and quizzes.
“But right towards the end of the semester, one morning I was walking to an early exam and on the ground was a kid, a little older than me lying there looking up at the sky. I had the urge to walk up and ask him what he was doing, but it felt too rude so I left him. I kept walking and heard a voice call back to me, 'Hey, guy.' I turned around, 'Yeah you, come here.'
“I walked up to him, he motioned for me to kneel beside him.
'What day is it?
I told him it was a Monday.
'Really? Wow, must've fell out watching the stars with this gir--'
He reached to his other side, feeling for a body, but no one was there. He never broke eye contact with me.
'Well, with his lovely imaginary girlfriend I have. Her name's Elsie. She's a charm.'
I helped him up and he left without much of a goodbye. A disrespectful mysteriousness. And I didn't see him again till the weather warmed up in the spring semester. Which was a repeat of the fall.”
Timothy asks me for some water. I started to feel like I'm one of his grandkids. How far in the trunk of memories is he going for this information?
“Thank you. Now the next time I saw Alan was in a smoking gazebo along a walking path on campus.
'Hey, guy!” he shouted, getting my attention. I walked back to the gazebo, coughing as the smoke roughhoused it's way into my lungs. He had those circular shades on, like the one John Lennon wore back in the day. A tie around his head, a light blue button up shirt that hung loose off his think frame. His hair was long and parted, and he sported a straggly red and black beard.
'Top of the morning, ta ya.' he said, putting out a cigarette on the tray. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was coughing.
'Course, the Irish don't really say that. It's actually quite racist, but I'm half Irish so no skin of my knuckles. I'm a mutt.'
“He smiled with such pomp. The arrogance was so natural, it fit him like his face. Other people around him were having conversations about Samuel Beckett, John Irving, Stephen King, and Jimmy Hendrix tripping acid together in the great T.A.R.D.I.S. in the sky. I remember laughing at that. They were all smiling at the ludicrous actuality of it happening. And it was late evening.
'Stay! Be silly and merry with us!” he shouted. I held my breath and sat down. I never made it to the rest of my classes that afternoon or for the next week. Alan and I chilled in my dorm, burned incense and plotted a protest. The whole time I was telling him he had to be literal with the cause. It couldn't be just because the college bookstore sold shot glasses, but confiscated any paraphernalia they found in the dorms.
'*******,I say. It's hypocritical and a scam. Like police pulling you over for going two-miles over the limit because they need to feed their kids. It's a Darwin rip-off.'
“Later that week he took my phone while I was sleeping, got my number, and Sunni's too. He never asked if he could come over after that night. He just did.
'I thought it was cool since we had a good time.'
"I didn't know what to say so I let it continue. His reason for stealing Sunni's number still baffles me. He said he thought she was a girl I was into. She was my sister, he was right in his own way. It was a while before he ever texted her.
“The next time I saw him he told me, 'I feel like a clockwork man running on thousands of gallons of caffeine.' I laughed at him and told him to stop reading Burgess.”
I stop Timothy for a moment. “Anthony Burgess? The author of A Clockwork Orange?” He nods and goes back to the story.
“You know, with the Second Cold War flaring up again I don't think it's wise to be worrying about an old man like me. This has been a century of second fillings. There are still Hipsters running about. This makes me feel no better. I want to go home.”
“Alright Mr. Glasser, but can we reschedule? I need to finish this article.” As he rises out of the chair, he agrees and goes for his coat.
“One more question, Mr. Glasser. Can you give me another quote from Alan? A bit of closing for this bit?
He turns around and looks me in the eye for the first time since the beginning of the interview. He squints his eyes at me and says, “When we would hang out at the gazebo where we actually met for the first time, and after that week I got back in the habit of going to class and doing my work. As I would leave I'd say, 'Alright man, I'm off to class, to learn and stuff.' He'd moan about it, and say, 'Look at him now, growing old and dying young.' Behind that same pompous grin."

I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

IV
I derailed in a dive bar.

V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

VIII
The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

IV
I coveted the house keys of strangers.

X
I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I had just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.

step into the surf.
waves surge over your ankles,
unexpected speed, threatening push.

wade thigh-deep on sea legs,
digging your toes into the sand,
timing your steps with the waves
as earth and moon play tug-of-war.
the drop-off slingshots your heart into your throat.

making slow progress to the ******* --
you're unfamiliar with this marine rhythm.
the ocean knows you don't belong on this dance floor.

stand up, fighting riptide, undertow.
side-tackle weakened waves
hitting the ******* like brick walls,
each an oceanic supernova with whitecaps imploding.

surrender to one,
let it ****** your feet from under you,
immerse you in its raging swansong.
it traveled a thousand miles to die
on this insignificant strip of coastline.

Let us make a trip
Let us visit the ocean coast,
Where the hot sand will touch our bare feet
Where our toes will get covered by sand and dust
Walking on the shore from noon till dusk.

The waves will come,
and we will run
The waves will go,
and we'll approach
There, the sun will glow,
there, between the orange sky and the blue liquid
creating an illuminating path to its heart.
Quick, let's run! The waves aren't that far!

Holding hands, as the waves hit us
and water sprinkles over our bodies, we recede
to our ****-made sand seats.

Though the sun may blind my eyes,
with you by my side I'd like to watch and say farewells and goodbyes.

we wanted to buy a house
with an oceanfront view
so we could lounge
on our wrap around
porch
and listen to the seagulls.
that was before
fragile hope was
cast away
and dashed against rocks,
sinking beneath waves.

Some puff a blunt
On an oceanfront
Seeing the world from a different view
As they get lifted

Others drink from the bottle
Like they just hit the lotto
With tomorrow never comes as their motto

But a select few,
Choose to pick a pen
And write their feelings away
Which in turn makes the reader feel some type of way

Can he still hear the summer songs?
And recall the times that are gone?
Their footprints were etched on the wet sand,
As they walked the shore hand-in-hand.
Dawn broke over the ocean blue,
Splashing the horizon with golden hue.
She held him close and softly kissed.
The waves rushed and washed their feet.
Now, when he walks on the oceanfront,
Can he still hear the summer songs?
On the silent nights under the starlit sky,
In a desolate beach two lovers would lie.
To her a melodious song he would sing,
Telling of the moons and stars he could bring.
Now when he wakes in the middle of night
And looks at the face of his beautiful bride
Does he recall the nights that are gone,
And the one to whom he sung the songs?

The sharp, dark waves crashed onto the rocky shore of a small island. The jagged stones that made up the coast stuck out of the ocean like an unorganized set of teeth shooting in all directions. A cold gust swept in and pushed the tall trees to and fro; moving them at the whim of the wind. The sky was grey as clouds completely surrounded the shore and blocked out the sun and its magnificent rays. The waves continued to smack up against the black stone shore when a man walked out to the oceanfront.
He was a small, old man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a bow strung across his body at his left shoulder. On his back was a quiver of crude arrows that were carved from the same black stones that created the island’s shoreline. The man was of a slight build. He was not particularly imposing as his olive skin and dark black hair continued to get rained on. He gazed out into the choppy waters before him, unfazed by the downpour of rain from the sky. He concentrated on the waves as they rose and crashed in a cycle that seemed to go on forever and ever. There was something peaceful about it all. To see a wave rally itself to an intimidating height and then disperse into the waters around it as if it had never existed in the first place. But yet that wave was always still a part of that ocean; though the definition of what was the wave was, was never clear.
The man turned his gaze back to the island with the rocky shoreline. He had lived there for as long as he could remember. His parents said the same thing to him when he inquired about their arrival on the island. And his grandparents told his parents the same thing a generation before. The island wasn’t so different from the waves, he thought to himself. People come and go. They disappear, but their essence always remains. There is something that always endures and rises in the next wave. Something simultaneously transient and eternal. The man smiled at this thought as he heard his wife call him in for dinner. He turned his back to the edge of the earth and walked home.

I follow the thrilling trails of his glorious canvas
to the sexiest spots close to his heart,
to the picturesque boardwalk that leads down
to the oceanfront, the beach houses so stylish
and vibrant, the sailboats gliding so peacefully
in the deep blue water, the white doves flying nearby,
and the fragrant breeze filling the lyrical landscape,
relaxing my soul as I flow into his handsomeness.

I want to stay with you forever
on top of the balcony, the moon’s
starry light shining on our glistening
flesh, the flowers and palm trees
swirling in the breeze, over the mouth
of the oceanfront, lovely seabirds,
flapping the luminescent wings
in the waves, their smooth-textured
bodies a dream enchantment, a melodic
tune in seamless synchronicity
with the stars.  I want to stay
in your arms, feel the angles
of your geometry mesh
with my trigonometry, your sleek
cheeks and lips full of dark desires,
the branches of your thighs and ankles
blending in with mine, the skies of time
traveling within our inventions, listening
To your deep voice surface the air,
inhaling your breath, every exuberant
sound, your invigorating scent seeping
through me, transforming every artistic
creation within my existence into brilliant
monuments.  To feel alive in your escape,
drifting in the mazes of passionate phases,
blissful spaces, your captivating portal
transporting me into dashing Saturn,
splashing Venus, rocking Jupiter, holding
onto me throughout the night, as I gaze
at your dark brown eyes, wanting to glide
inside your crowned heavens, wanting
to spend the rest of my life by your side.

I knew I could never have you, but that didn’t stop me
from writing about you every day, creating monumental
scenes and dreams that I could escape inside of and feel
your nearness around me, to walk through the salty sand,
embracing the instrumentally lively azure skies, the desirous
clouds guiding us to the gorgeous oceanfront, snow-white
swans swimming serenely in the uncharted and flawless
seas, their wings so magically intriguing, our hands
interlocked, our eyes peering at this lovely landscape.

I knew that it was all in my imagination, but the more
I wrote about your sexiness, all the creative words
filling my mind, leading me further into another world
as you kissed me, holding me so caringly, telling me
that you would never leave me, that you wanted to flow
and grow old with me, loving each other until eternity.

And I was so pleased, beaming to the highest degree,
so lucky in love, this mutual trust between two heartbeats
singing in unity, the most passionate climaxes and ******
advances transporting my body into thrilling trances,
how I had always imagined this moment, but never
thought it was possible, that I could have a chance
in this romance, all the glancing from afar at your
perfectness before we started knowing and developing
feeling for each other, how many times I had daydreamed
about feened for you, just wanting to have my one shot
to unlock your door and prove to you that I was all for you,
that if we came together, I would be your forever,
that I would give and do anything for you – that’s
how much you meant to me.  

And as we stood by the vastly lovable seas, the wind
rolling in from the west, your hands caressing my arms
and shoulders, feeling so at rest, this was the best destiny
that I had ever reached.

Let me think for a moment
on how much I love
everything about him,
how his beautiful eyes
glow with vivid designs,
how his chiseled cheeks
remind me of the oceanfront,
the heavenly waves crashing
upon the shores of sensuous escape.

Let me reminisce
on his rhythmic lips,
the pink and pleasing places
of loving paradise,
pure perfection written
in the starry sky
as I close my eyes
and bask in his endless bliss.