Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Smell of Citrus Devastation

Tank Navigator spits his saliva on his palm and rubs his hands together. He gripes that no lotion could match the powers of saliva to moisten dry desert hands. He continues to needle his fork into the flesh of the gar, ripping scales, and twisting the sea meat from utensil to his mouth. He made sure to spit on his palms before commencing with this meal as to not perfume his hands with fish stink.

Tank Navigator perches him self on the top tier of guns on the man of war vehicle prowling the desert when he takes his meal. His immense militant pride permeates his ability to breathe, eat, sleep, shit. Talent, he believes, will fade with any amount of time off. His capabilities in reasoning are shrouded in the fog of battle. He's a warrior in the truest sense. Foggy social judgment further plunges him into the survival mode. He tugs at his beard to be sure no bits of fish remain, to limit his smell, and hide from the birds. He rips a sheet of paper and uses half to wipe his lips.

Tank Navigator next wraps the ripe orange in the other half of the sheet of paper and will eat it later. The orange has such a pungent scent, he'd rather eat it closer to the oasis well, so he can rinse off the citrus and avoid the birds. The smell of citrus devastation is an ignorance that forfeits lives.

Tank Navigator is thin in waist. He's a grazer, and can survive days in the desert with only chewing gum and moist ivy to suckle at, contained in tight plastic and carried in black canvas, out of the sun's depleting shine. He knows how to identify non poisonous desert moss and squeeze at the roots for hydration.

Tank Navigator is truly on when stumbling across native camps. He's a savage to the extreme, and his aggression is truly frightening when in this mode of pillaging for loot and coin, burning towns to the pits of desert ash, taking the dry brush and weed with it in roaring flames fanned to intensity by the night wind. Tank Navigator would kill his "Ma" if forced to for survival. He wanders the desert alone, and has lost touch with the communal and team like army ways of life. Everyman for himself he'll growl as he hides in mud for days to track down an ambiguous enemy. Earth savy at the hunt, Tank Navigator will curse the Jew and yawn in the same breath.

No bite is too slow for him as he savors the flavor and allows his body the glory of digesting small grams of nutrition. He makes bibs from sheet metal covering his body, again protecting foods from staining him with scent. The world isn't safe like a zoo, he'll tell you, and again he'll grunt something about every man for himself. His lust for war has him more content than a Zen Buddhist.

Tank Navigator has devastated tribes and blood lines of kin. A dark id gets darker with the wielding of a blunted axe when out of ammunition. Powering down raging canyon rapids in a tattered cheap raft, all sense of right and wrong is null and void. He'll chew several live hens, one after another if surrounded by enough water to bathe off the blood scent. But if residing in the dry desert he's careful to hide the scent of prey.

The sun is on course to set, and the end of the bright blaze for the day will tap Tank Navigator to his most awake and alert, for dark night is when all the wild comes out to play and dine.

Friday, April 25, 2008


The sunshine took a trip over seas.
In a wooden box, on a wooden vessel.
No true contact until the
next glass vessel left port in return
with a glass box encasing a glass sheathe;
preserving fingerprints of the sun.
The sunshine arrived at its destination,
in mint condition and brought much
needed light to the land and industry.
But while the sunshine set up shop in the
new world, the old world attempted to
nibble at the ripened corn.
The corn still grew, but had a loss in flavor.
The corn eaters anticipate the return of the sunshine.
In the meantime the corn eaters have become
bean eaters, for beans suffice with
moon rays.

-Dedicated to Alicia Dorr; we miss you-

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Carpathian Cat

The twisted Carpathian Cat
doesn't like the jungle anymore.
His red whiskers look as a
hellish gray in the full moon glow.
Night is his time to pounce.
The robust trickery of the soft,
elusive, feminine bottom.
His achievement at truly tracking
and penetrating the butt cat
inspired the Gods to spray
the jungle flowers
with an aphrodisiac mist.
The Carpathian Cat doesn't
like the jungle anymore
because his lust drives
him mad.
The resulting effort of his
self soothing launched a
desert city whose chief
industry is gambling and
distraction from the potential
pains of natural arousal.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Cellular Conspiracy in Favor of Gluttony

I've been trying this thing; where I actually eat healthy. Cut out the deep fried shit, the mono sodium glutamate, slabs of red meat, the intensity of sugars. Focus on the whole wheat grains, the greens, the vegetables, the fruits, the white meats; in general food stuffs that the human body processes with ease and utilizes efficiently to power a vibrant man to do his life's work.

With each attempt to put the above into practice, my body screams with cravings. Each cell, each atom joining together in a violent protest and rant. In conspiracy with these biological hooligans are the images and sounds pounded and absorbed into my sub-conscience over the past quarter of a century. KFC and Dunkin Donuts rip forth all consuming invitations, festering from the inner depths of the brain region responsible for emotion. Joy is biggie sized in my whorish run to 7/11.

Each thought in the direction of natural diet, bounces back with maximum withdrawal for the empty calorie American soul food. The temper tantrum and pseudo bar fight of a cellular conspiracy, fiercely addicted to chimichanga burritos, crab rangoon, White Castle, Pizza Hut Express, breakfast sandwiches are amplified, crippling.

Each cell gets its fix and goes into a coma. The lazy boy recliner takes precedent over all other potential activities. Today I sound my right to behave as a true American. My Ben & Jerry's pint awaits me and I will descend upon it with relaxed animal instinct for desert.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Doe eyed Sanskrit

I decide that this is the last pitcher of Leinenkugels before chimichanga time.

The sudden enchantress enters the tavern, followed by a shaggy fellow.

She dons a pink (or orange, one may not be able to discern in this dim light) sweater. Her brunette hair is pony tailed up and bouncy. The bouncy I find cute as it moves up and from and back to the pink (or orange) sweater.

Our eyes meet briefly as I look to the bartender to order my last pitcher, and she, her first for the night. Her eyes, a deep brown, the eyes of a gorgeous doe, sad and soft.

I join my pals off to the side and we fill our cups.

I don't know the details of her connection with the shaggy man she arrived with, therefore I shy away from "hitting on her."

In the next few minutes as we down the Leinenkugel remains, she periodically looks back at the paintings above me. Our eyes meet again several times. I'm startled, unsure whether she is looking at these paintings as an excuse to "check me out" or as an excuse to gauge whether this creep behind her is "checking her out." Or whether she is honestly interested in the paintings themselves. All I know is, I can't help but make eye contact with her. It is thrilling. It is intoxicating. I can easily see where a man can grow addicted, looking deep into her soft brown eyes. And drifting in for a kiss.

The chicken shit that I am, I leave the bar upon finishing the last of my cup, so that my pal and I can get our fill of chimichanga to soak up the swill.

On the walk out the door I think that I would like to write her a love note, in some sacred ancient language. Perhaps Sanskrit.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

{Dream Log 4.10.08}

The circles in snow, widening with each reckless rotation, padded into a thick, slick wintry surface. Doing "donuts" in the parking lot with a beat up car became joyous horseplay. Mindless and nostalgic, we had nothing to lose.

Myself and three females, all bundled up, waiting a long stretch of time for the coal fueled choo choo train to arrive. Between running "donuts" with the car in the parking lot and waiting a top a wood rotted train platform with rusted iron, we still saw no signs of a train light breaking through the blizzard haze in the distance down the whitened track. The track disappeared under the accumulated snow, so did our hopes for the train to arrive that evening.

We climbed over a chain link fence and invited ourselves into the old, vacant train depot.

We spent the night in the control tower. We spread our jackets and scarves to make a pseudo blanket and huddled close together for warmth, in the nude, with skin conducting cozy. Myself, three women, passing time in a shared dream, anxious for the train to take us to our shared destination.