ridiculous but not unreasonable

Clyfford Still,
Your paintings
Are boring.

I will never go
To Denver to the
Clyfford Still Museum.

I would only sleep
On its empty benches.

ClyffordStill.net
Has too many ads
By Google.

Your descendents
Are selling you out.

I do not blame you.
Abstract Expressionism
Is the culprit.

You are merely
The messenger
That I am killing
Posthumously.

Your early work
Was quite good
When you were
Trying to be 
Salvador Dali.

However,
I will remember you
As a sharp dresser.

Because that is the only picture
I have ever seen
Of you.

The end.

Let me preface this by saying I have always wanted to kick a pigeon. As a child, I would chase them and shoot at them with rubber bands. I always knew they were evil and an abomination. Flying rats. Shit birds. They have many names. They are my enemy.

I feel no pity for their plight. When I see them pancaked by taxis, their putrid guts mashed onto the New York tar, their peers feeding on their very brains, I am filled with an odd serenity. It is bliss in its most diabolical form: the extermination of that which I hate.

But as I stumbled my way home at 2 AM, Gorillaz in my ears, Pimms in my bloodstream, the exquisite shadenfreude of pigeon death was not among my thoughts.

Hoyt Street, Brooklyn is generally silent and safe at this hour, though on a several occasions, after passing through the local projects, I have been trailed for a few blocks, young toughs sizing up me versus my drunkenness.

Can he fight?
(No.)
How fast is he?
(Not very, bum knee.)
Is his iPod worth it?
(Absolutely, all I care about is self-preservation, take it. Here, my wallet. Here, my pants.)

Little do they know my sole defense against the physical and emotional traumas of this world involves the ground and the fetal position.

I hope they don’t read blogs.

Every few paces I look around, I stare down passing cars, I am vigilant. I am alone. I am two blocks from home when a woman, white, in her 40’s, tears around the corner, mouth agape, spindly arms and legs awhirl, her black hair trailing behind her.

Terrific. A crack whore.

I prepare to play possum and pray for a quick robbery/mauling when she comes panting to a stop. I remove my earbuds.

“HELLO. I’M SORRY but you’ve GOT TO HELP me. There’s a PIGEON on my DOOR. He won’t LET ME IN. Can you MAKE HIM GO AWAY?”

My earbuds are out. Why is she yelling at me? I know I look mildly foreign when I am unshaven, but this is ridiculous.

“Sure thing.”

“I’M SORRY. I’M SCARED OF PIGEONS.”

She lives in a brownstone a block away. There is a gate in front of the front door. Perched at the bottom is the largest shit bird I have ever seen in my life. It looks like an owl with mange. I climb the stairs to the gate. The woman is in the street, on the other side of a parked H2.

I look down and hiss. (This works for my cats). The bird does not budge. I kick the gate and it adjusts its retched feet, but does not vacate. There is something wrong with this pigeon. Finally, I toe it off the gate and toward the stair ledge. I keep steady pressure on its back, forcing it to walk the plank. At last, it tumbles half way down the stairs. It must be injured. The woman squeals.

“BE CAREFUL!”

I look up. I can’t tell if she is worried for the beast or me. You can only have so much respect for these things, lady. Violence is the only thing they understand. Still, she cowers.

“ohmigod.”

She says this in a tiny, quavering voice that concerns me. I look down. The animal is now climbing back up the stairs toward me. This is not good.

I wouldn’t call the clenching sensation in my guts at that moment “fear,” but a giant winged rodent limping toward you… it’s disconcerting. It’s like a zombie baby; harmless, really, but if it gets close enough bad things are going to happen. Additionally, this thing is clearly sick, and I’m not just talking about Hep-C. It’s either deranged or a masochist or, good lord, maybe its vampiric like those finches.

Suddenly I am very sorry for casting myself as the star of this farce. When that batty woman came up to me, I was filled with a sense of chivalrous duty. Finally! A manly task deserving of my attention!

When I had a girlfriend, I led a life full of blue-collar utility; pickup heavy thing, open tightly closed thing, reach thing on high, kill insect thing, make love thing. Now I am completely cerebral and useless. This was the first request a woman has made of me besides “Buy me a drink” or “Stop following me” in almost two years. And now this bird thing is one foot and peck away from infecting me with a host of unclassified viruses. Fantastic.

It shuffles its mortal coil to within an inch of my New Balance and with that, some ancient mechanism, quite underneath my conscious mind, begins to turn its gears furiously, and the confusion of the moment congeals into a single, beautiful act. A synapse fires, a tendon tenses, my hot blood radiates into the cool night. With a crisp snap from a rotten knee, my leg springs into the early morning air and the monster goes flying, end over worthless end. My inner child roars with delight. It is the culmination of almost three decades of repressed desire. Finally. I have kicked a pigeon.

The wretch completes its ungainly trajectory with a feathery thud and roll; its tiny, diseased organs rattle around in its horrible flesh. It is wonderful. The woman thanks me, emerging from behind the H2, but providing the justification to fulfill a lifelong dream is thanks enough. Is this how cops feel all the time? I think I’m in the wrong line of work.

The woman sprints inside, thanking me again and again as she fumbles with her key. She is traumatized. She feels violated. She needs a bath. She slams the door.

I am alone, calm. Righteous adrenaline has sobered me. In the pocket of my hoodie, tiny beats thump away. Summer leaves wave hello; the five visible stars wink at me knowingly. The universe approves.

Lying in bed, I relive the moment, watching the animal flailing through the air against its will. I should feel bad. No matter how accustomed you are to anything, even flight, no one likes being forced to do something when he is against the idea. All he wanted to do was chill on the stoop. Who is this woman to make demands of him? Or me? And who I am to acquiesce? Isn’t this thing deserving of some respect? Or a name? Frank?

But I do not feel bad, not a whit, other than the fact I only got to kick him once, and not hard enough. I sleep and dream of beautiful things.

The next morning I see Frank the owl-sized shit bird atop another flight of stairs. Clearly, he has not learned his lesson. I feel the itch to give him a good punting. But it is daylight, citizens are about, and without a middle-aged addict in distress I cannot don the mask of valiant knight-errant/punter. But I am consoled by the knowledge that soon enough darkness will descend on Hoyt Street and once again I will be alone with my New Balance, my metastasizing vigilantism, and Frank.

After all, he can run. But he cannot fly.

Absurd & Wondrous Tales from Costa Rica Coming Soon!

Plaything

Dream, Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica

Serena

In an effort to experiment with collaborative storytelling, I asked friend and all-around creative person Keith Boynton to write a story with me over six days. Alternating days, we each got a word limit of 200 words. Each night, we would email our 200 to the other and the other would continue the story. Thanks to Katherine Maughan who provided our word/phrase of inspiration,  “Unity Cup.” This is what happened.

## Indicates a change in author. I began.

STORYTIME 1

“This isn’t what I had in mind at all.”

Roman waited for a response. It was a funny thing to say. Not hilarious, but deserving of a chuckle. One, from someone. He adored his own wit but no one laughed. No one moved. The air smelled sweet. He had made the punch too strong.

“Let’s go, let’s go.” He murmured weakly. Not that he’d be able to do anything should his encouragements be heeded. But at least the will was strong. The body can recover but once the will is dead, the body becomes largely meaningless, except to science.

There were bodies everywhere, in various stages of undress. He sat in the corner in his underwear, feeling fat. This is not the position he had pictured his future self being in hours ago. The record had reached its end and the whole lodge filled with a hiss that made him sleepy. The embers nearby whispered their last as the windows reappeared in dull grey.

Roman hated sunrise. He tried to slump over but found himself quite paralyzed. He couldn’t even motivate himself to curl up next to one of these seminude nymphets. The floor was no more appetizing, but closer.

##

Five hours later, there was a knock at the door.

Roman assumed that he still couldn’t get up, which was fine, because he didn’t want to.  But then his thighs tensed, he felt a rising sensation, and he realized he was heading for the door.

Amazing how powerful the sense of obligation is, he mused, and immediately felt an immense pride in the coherence of this thought.  It confirmed that the punch’s effects were not permanent, which was just what the brochure had promised.

He tripped over four prone lovelies on his way across the room, but – thrillingly – did not fall.  Reaching the door, he steadied himself on the doorknob and leaned his throbbing forehead against the wood.  The knock came again, jarring his head brutally, and it was in a spirit of irritated defiance that he boldly flung open the door and stepped up to face the invader.  The glare of sudden daylight nearly blinded him.  He threw an arm across his eyes.  A breeze tickled his chest hair.  He suddenly felt naked.

“Good morning.”

He shifted his arm and tried to peer into the stabbing light.  The voice was female – bright, chipper.  It made him want to kill.

##

“Would you like to purchase cookies to benefit the Girls Scouts of America?”

He coughed, squinted. A figure materialized. It was dirty blonde and wore a false grin like his junior prom date. He swallowed his phlegm.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She turned and bent at the knees, rummaging through a box. Her adorable skirt filled him with rage. She popped up in a 180-degree turn with boxes in various primary colors.

“How many you want?”

“How many you got?”

He led the way back into the dark, staggering along the island chain of rug submerged among the bodies. The room reeked of unshowered revelers. Still no movement. The girl was strangely unmoved herself by the whole spectacle.

Shouldn’t these fools be coming to? How curious.

She placed the box on the table. Roman sat.

“That it?”

“I’ve got more in the car.

“Good. I want everything.”

She made six trips in all, the silly girl. Roman sipped stale water from a gallon jug. He handed her two crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“I don’t have change for that,” she panted. Her obscene voice made his eyeballs throb.

“Keep the change.”

She pocketed the cash.

“You must be thirsty. Care for some punch?”

##

The girl gulped the punch down greedily, Roman watching her like a hawk.  With his eyes readjusted to the gloom, and the girl thoroughly engrossed in her beverage, he treated himself to a good long look.  She was tall for her age – lean, but not bony.  Her clothes were a little too small for her, but it was impossible to tell whether she was keen to show herself to advantage, or simply growing very fast.  She had freckles and dimples and oddly flat breasts.  The fact that he despised her made her somehow more enticing.

Roman popped another cookie.  They were sandy and slightly bitter, but he was ravenous.  He was already halfway through the box.

“Big party, huh?”

She was standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly – nervousness, maybe, or else the punch was kicking in.  Seated on the couch, Roman smiled.  This was going to be easy.

“Mrrrraggh gmbbbb dnnn.”

That was odd.  He’d meant to say “You have no idea” or “It’s just getting started,” or something else that was quippy and vaguely ominous.  He tried again, but this time all that came out was drool.

Good God, Roman thought.  What’s in these cookies?

##

The floor came quickly this time, all at once and at his face, but he felt no pain upon impact. The blow separated his spirit self from its sheath, and he found himself swimming in a pond of purple nothingness below, his body above. He looked up at the surface, the flesh log Roman feet away from the kneeling scout, gagging on her manicured fingers, spilling yesterday’s punch over the polished oak planks. He rather liked this angle. Very cinematic.

A feeling of sorrow seeped into him. Could this be death, these netherwaters, or just a nasty trip? Would he see mother again? He never read The Odyssey. He felt vulnerable and young. He just wanted to be home, away from these people, this mess. Just sober and showered. In bed. At peace.

The eyelids of his body above closed and he was neatly yanked into the black abyss below.

*****

Consciousness returned. He inhaled, exhaled. Alive!a Something smelled like Sun Ripened Raspberry lotion. He opened his eyes.

He had been moved. He was next to the trashcan. In front of him, two sisters were stacked like crushed cars. Somewhere, someone spoke.

“Everyone’s dead. You got that? They’re fucking dead.”

##

The girl scout loomed into his field of vision, looking down at him.  Her hair was up, in a smart little bun.  She wore a tailored gray pantsuit.  Her breasts were bigger.  Even her freckles were gone. She was definitely not a girl scout.

“How much did you use?” she said.

Behind her, men in coveralls labeled “Unity, Inc.” were disposing of the bodies.  One of them was listening patiently to the near-hysterical lodge owner, who kept pointing out over and over that the bodies were dead.  Eventually, while the girl was talking, the man zapped him with a taser and loaded him into a truck.

“How much did you use?” she repeated.

“Whole package,” Roman muttered.

The girl cocked her head and pressed a finger to her ear.

“Everything’s fine, sir,” she said.  “The product is flawless.  He just used too much.”  She turned her attention back to Roman.

“You gonna kill me?” he asked.

The girl smiled.  She still had the dimples.  “Oh, no,” she said.  “We can always use more guinea pigs.”

Roman fumed as the workmen flung him into the truck beside the unconscious lodge owner.  This wasn’t what he had had in mind at all.

I’ve spent two Christmases around my step-brother, his wife and young boys. During the Yuletide I sleep late, eat too much, drink too much, sometimes vomit, and always walk around the house in tattered boxers; generally exhibiting no behavior that would make any sane person think I am capable of keeping a child fed or clothed or alive for a period longer than fifteen minutes. I mean, I burn toast during SportsCenter.

Which made it all the more shocking when a few weeks ago my stepbrother asked me to babysit my two-year-old nephew, Dallas. I’d never been trusted with a child before nor gone out of my way to ask for that trust. Me and babies have always had a policy of “Don’t ask, don’t kill the baby.”

The price of nannies in San Francisco must be going up. So I fly out.

Upon arrival, D’s mom introduces me to him as his “manny,” short for “male nanny.” Which is fine. I’m an actor. I can sublimate derogatory nicknames for acting roles or just for when I snap and start shooting on the F train.

On day one, I am given a list of things to do. Everyone leaves. It’s just me and D. I consult the list. “Give him X amount of Y cereal, milk, steamed broccoli, naps at 11 and 3,” etc. All this I can do. At the bottom of the list is: “Check diaper now and then”. It is 9 AM. I check. There is poop. I am scared.

I look at the list again. “If there is poop change the diaper.” I flip the list over for diaper changing instructions. There are no instructions. Surely this is a mistake. There are no instructions on the diaper box. Not good. This is not cereal + milk + bowl. This is diaper + baby + poop. I call my step-brother. Out of the office. His wife, away from phone. I try convincing the operator I am in the midst of a moderate emergency but she does not wish to be of assistance and transfers me to a dial tone.

My parents got divorced when I was seven and my first razor was electric. In college, when my electric broke and was faced with my roommate’s disposable I Googled “how to shave” since I never got that lesson. I start up my Mac. The internet is down. This is very bad.

We race to the bathroom. I set him in the sink and take off the diaper. There is a brick of poo staring at me. I throw it in the trash. Dallas sits happily, alternating between poking his belly button and his penis. And all this time, I thought I was the only one who does that.

I clean his behind. It takes me at least six half-assed attempts (literally) to figure out the best way to clear his rear of leftovers. Finally: the old feet over head technique; I’ve seen this in movies but it never registered in my brain as having real world application; as opposed to movie CPR, movie gun play, and movie making out. I put the diaper on (backwards, I learn later). I pray he does not poop under my watch again.

For lunch I steam broccoli in a John Deere bowl. It is too hot to handle so I transfer its contents to a green bowl. Dallas begins to scream like a banshee when I refuse to give him the John Deere bowl. I cool it down in the sink and offer it to him, but he throws it to the floor, inconsolable. He is still screaming. This screaming is extremely disconcerting to my soul. On the list it says, “If Dallas cries, don’t worry.” I am worried.

Now I see why they have those advertisements that tell you not to shake a baby because nothing would make me happier than shaking a baby. This is hell. Hell is war. This is a
war – and I’m losing. I have invaded a sovereign nation under false pretenses. It’s hard to tell who is a friend or enemy. And speaking of improvised explosive devices, what on earth is that smell? Mustard gas?

I take Dallas upstairs, screaming in my ear, I marvel how he had more poop to poop. Lo, there is poop on my shirt. I just bought this shirt. Banana Republic. Turns out the big part of the diaper goes in the back for a reason. The shirt poop smells so bad it gives me a splitting headache.

I put him in the crib for a nap. He does not want a nap. I give him Elmo. He throws Elmo out of the crib and then cries because Elmo is so far away. He wants entertainment. I’m an actor. Fine. You want entertainment? I’ll give you entertainment.

I pretend to douse Elmo in gasoline and set him on fire with my pretend blowtorch. Elmo screams and seizes in wild agony. Dallas laughs like a madman. Elmo tries to eat Dallas’ face. Dallas is highly amused. This is my kind of child. After 30 minutes of this, he sleeps. My vocal chords are bleeding.

His mom gets home at five and gives me a beer. “Looks like you need this.” I watch SportsCenter. D’s four-year-old brother, Jack, repeatedly pummels me with a pillow. I feel nothing. How can I bear two more days of this? This child will die and everyone will blame me. Thank God I have tomorrow off. I fall asleep at nine.

I spend the next day in San Francisco, visiting museums. It is wonderful. I learn I love modern art. I consume as much Peet’s Coffee and Blondie’s Pizza as possible.

On the bus back to Embarcadero, I feel nauseous. It could be the 2000 mg of caffeine mingling unfavorably with close to a pound of mozzarella, or it could be the fact that I’m genuinely worried about being alone with my nephew again. I daydream about all the things that could go wrong. I am thinking of hiring a non-male manny to take over for me. Then a voice from above says, “Please hold on.” I look up. It is the bus speaking to me. It’s the Inspiration Bus. God bless this bus.

I decide to hold on.

Day two begins with us sitting across the breakfast table from each other, eating Cheerios and diced strawberries. I am determined to weather this storm. I will get to know this human. He is a man of no words, I am a man almost entirely of words. Despite this, it turns out we actually have a lot in common.

We both like making repetitive nonsense sounds and rhythmically bumping our heads against the couch. We like eating peas off the floor. We annihilate Trader Joe’s Ultimate Vanilla Wafers. Laser pointers keep us fascinated for hours. There’s more:

Things we like

A clean diaper
Ice-cold milk
Slow moving animals
Slides, Swings
Steamed broccoli
Risky behavior

Things we don’t like

Non-music radio
Clothing
Quiet time
Small dogs
Merlot

Later, we go for a walk and he forgoes the safety of the grass field to run down the center of the street. That kind of daring and reckless endangerment of his own life is truly impressive. We slide together. We eat dinner together. I wash his hands and put him to bed.

Day three goes by too fast. We are best buds. This is the life I want! Snacktime, playtime, naptime. No worktime, cleaning housetime, hangovertime. I am a two-year-old. A two-year-old with a college diploma and relatively well-developed sex drive.

There is, of course, a vast distinction between ‘I can be friends with a two-year-old’ and ‘I can create my own two year old.’ Driving back to the airport, I gave Elmo one last gasoline bath and Dallas squealed. His mom commented, “You feel that? That’s your paternal instinct.” And if that paternal instinct is complete fear of breaking a baby in half, I agree. When I hugged Dallas goodbye and walked toward my airplane, I felt pride that I had not by accident or intent murdered Dallas. And I must admit I got a little emotional.

That emotion, you ask?

Relief.

Advice Poem 1

Take Your Time

Too Young 1