Hank Moses Refugee Ripple Rock Disperse sound echo void driven by not curiosity Panic. Not a visit.
Guilty It would be really nice It would be really nice to die So when I feel violated Give her credit Be fair Poetry is the obvious She loved Or I was I begged She’s thinking of taking a tax course I can’t believe I have Here Depression is the Soul on strike against the body. Love from afar is just a prayer. Self defeat resonates in the balls. And then it happened again.
C&B The bottom. Cookies and beer. John Wayne and nausea. The cat's acting weird. The decor is retro chic: Invulnerability portrayed by a nervous wreck. Betrayal unveiled. She liked it when Mary Poppins said, "Let me make one thing perfectly clear... I never explain anything." It had been the one line in the movie that disturbed me, felt out of place. A means of coping perhaps? Too late to ask. Of course my response is to doubt myself.
The Cross Slam on my way to Richmond..... Check this out: And now ladies and gentlemen for your entertainment pleasure I would like to do what I like to call laughs. Tape 3 A Roadside attractions: like a rainbow elusive like the lightbeams that fall through the break of the overcloud sky. Like the break itself, can be like the little white tape at the beginning of a cassette and the poem like a rainbow And as I thought about what Kim said (that God is always there) I watched as the truck overlaying the canvas concurrently carrying a 35 foot missile, crossed the overpass and as my glance came back down I witnessed the crossing flowers in the grass at the border towards the cross with the fresh flowers Once stopping to pee on an exit ramp I looked up and saw beautiful vivid rich tropical open flowers on a tree, next to a pod tree. I looked, but it was the only such flower on the only such tree
Terminal End Rubber Bumper Babytooth Waive the glitter wand I am what I want And the thing about him you said long ago Everyone is the same Everything is normal How do you know that and what do you mean why did I tell you that. it’s a song. You know why. The hate box comes out King Lear no wonder the connection. It’s a family obliterate yourself Pull them off The secret of why white men play so many notes A band of tribes A Kingdom of Priests Backspacing dreams draws not clear but somehow furthers A failed template does not prove failure All or nothing i charged You swam to the Dark edges of the flames You are the one I must be still with to have. then Marilena was in me and it was dawn. "This is God," Freddie said.
Figments Rears Part I Interrupted Transmition is the Devil Bicycles, going away. Via con dios. Like a kid high on soda, prune when it is cold. Consultation is not barren staying in timeout to mask me. Fester- it means to rot. some people are nice aren't they? :so-so for a while, then a flaw emerges leaving one breathless, for how can my love have a flaw it is perfect or nothing. For this we give thanks, for the breath, for the fear, for the risks, for our covered rears. Part II Enough said Bush messed with the biggest interest group the Military and they had deep roots and reverberations in the Body Politic, and in particular, the constituency of his Administration. some people do a lot of drugs in the military. CEO's do more drugs than anyone, though. Part III CEO'S They drink hard liquor. It unwinds them. loosens them. They drink it if they hunt. Like mobsters, they take pills. They know mobsters. Part IV. Mobsters The taste of blood. A bullet. Part V Draw some lines Psycho psych psycho everything that means. Square the circles. Circles the world, sensitive souls is not meant for even geeks are killers.
Read short story, starting at 1 then sequentially, through 16.
Conxcheviveer and GreenRover follow Hank, Zeke, Johnie, and Tina out of the bus, walk quickly past them, and into the foggy park. They had focused into total banuit with the human group. As the aliens walk on to the geographical destination, they see and interact with the group in their minds, planting the reactions of the players. “Towards the carousel,” they successfully hear Hank say. “Have you ever been to the Carousel with your wife while you are divorcing, and bought her a balloon and cotton candy?” asks Johnie, making all the species uncomfortable. They jogged on in silence. Hank thrust his hands down into the pockets of his black jeans. They are upon the carousel. The aliens wait by the still horses, looking noticeably at peace. “He’s here,” Hank says, out loud. The humans, except for Hank, look up suddenly and drop their centers of gravity. Their hands reach out poised to the seven and five o’clock positions. Hank is happy now. It feels beautiful. He could cry for joy. His cells are light, pulled outward by an electronic tide. “I do feel something,” Tina says. “They’ve come.” “Did you say that, cause I didn’t say it, Tina says. “No,” Zeke says. “I’m gonna wet my pants,” Johnie responds. “Open up to it.” Hank thinks. “Ahhhfoow! Tina says. The electronic circle is seven feet above the ground, visible long enough for Zeke to think, if I can see that I am still alive. “It’s only logical,” the aliens continue to calmly transmit. “What’s only logical?” the aliens hear back in one combined human voice, minus Hank’s. “Everything,” the aliens answer. “That’s a syllogism.” “What’s a syllogism?” “That is.” “But we need to make allowance to be wrong to move ahead” the aliens respond, growing concerned at the humans’ ability to fold as one their combined energies. “Sometimes the stakes are very high,” Hank alone thinks. “Still, you need to go with your gut.” the aliens argue. “Do you now? You know the opening scene in Moby Dick? To obey God is to disobey yourself.” This was Zeke’s thought breaking through. “Disobey the Gut God?” the other humans and both aliens transmit, as the electronic tide heightens. “All human endeavors are corrupt.” The aliens intone. “Jeez, you’re bipolar,” someone cuts in mentally. Sitting sidesaddle on a haughty carousel horse, is a female freak gold-headed bombshell Makmut. One crossed gold leg bounces on the other. She files her golden nails, and her soft brown eyes focus into Hank. “How come our brain’s the biggest when our heart has the love in it? You smell like eggs and soap. It’s good,” she tells Hank. Hank says to them all, after pausing to stare longer, “The boundaries are the stepping stone to another world, don’t you come undone. Tell me Father, how does it feel?” The band members, now including Tina, looked at Hank. The aliens smile, as they knew Hank would bring the others, and the aliens suspect that properly played, the others will be assets. “Performers are meant to be played,” the aliens counsel the humans by thought. The band members see themselves together at the courtyard before the entrance to The Foobar, happily mingling in the scene. Hank always prides himself on his innate body knowledge. Not hesitating: “Be prepared. Masters, indestructible, invincible friends seeking,” he thinks to the others as their hands spread out and back, diving their chests and feet out, held elevated and pulled. “Love from far away is just a prayer,” Hank says out loud, and they nod farewell. THE END
2:30AM: the trustworthy crew happily packing up the instruments onto the truck, the band ready to go out after work, after one last round. “On to Central Park,” the band says in unison. “Here’s to the Irish.” “Here’s to the year 1634!” “A good year for the syphilis, no doubt.” “Our little spiral brothers.” “Let’s go.” Hank says, and as they wrap up in their coats, he registers a reflection shoot by in the bar mirror. “Seen a ghost have you,” Zeke says carefully to Hank, as they spill out of the bar into the cold, thru the portal of the brass railed door. “Ha. Now 9th Avenue in the 40’s and 50’s is the place to drink yourself to death while you make the friends of a lifetime,” Hank responds. They walk slowly and quietly west toward Eighth Avenue, huddled slightly against the wind. A bus waits for them at the corner. As there are no cabs visible, and as the driver answers that it is the right bus, they get on and made change. Johnie and Tina sit next to each other across the aisle from Hank and Zeke. As soon as they are seated, the silence is broken by a conversation behind Hank and Zeke: “Christopher Columbus said about the natives, ‘They have never seen swords. They have no iron. We could make them into our servants.’” Hank and Zeke listen for more, and hear, “Did you ever see Mars Attacks? The friggin little bubble heads who go ‘ack ack?’ That’s what ‘ack ack meant.” Three rows back, behind Johnie and Tina, a man who appeared to be a hard drinking housepainter said loudly, “Yeah, that was me. I shot him in the head. I’ll shoot him again tomorrow if he don’t gimme the money.” “Nice,” Zeke laughed. The #72 bus accelerated and slammed to stops that seemed beyond the limitations of brake pads: stops that accelerated the protoplasm and forced the front windshield to bulge out for an instant. Hank said quietly but so all four of the band could hear, crinkling his brow, “so the delivery is at dawn. I guess it can’t hurt to watch, and see what transpires…the green man…he will always put his allegiance to his mission. I thought I got rid of him. I don’t like the way he came at me.” The bus swerved hard without slowing. “People must have strong necks here,” Zeke observed. “Let’s go!” Hank stood up at the stop, one of the few traffic circles in New York City. Hank felt the spooky sensation of the dream, as the muscles in his skin pricked up. In the shadowy back seats of the bus, a shiny, wiry man dressed in green, leaned in and smirked to his similarly attired, shiny companion, “Ack, ack, ack.” “Ha”, he mimicked. He winked, and his bottom lid slid over his eyeball amphibiously.
Angelo giggled, then looked in Hank’s eyes. “Huh whas up?” He pulled his shirt sleeves longer. “This girl,” he said, pointing next to him, “Tina, is upset. She wants to play second guitar with you guys.” Hank suddenly realized that Tina was a highly recommended guitar player, and that he had failed to make the scheduled meeting with her before the show. “Sorry,” he said. He waited for well wishers to disperse, his mates to gather and meet Tina, and for Angelo, who had no patience for stories, to leave. Then he said, in a voice made gravelly and short-breathed by abuse, “Here’s the skinny. In my day job, in Virginia, I work in a tobacco store. These metally, human looking crash-landed aliens, took an interest in me. My boss, who has contacts all the way up that industry, sold them a ton, tons of tobacco, best grade. It will be delivered to Central Park in a few hours. It’s a coincidence that I am here same time. I dreamt about the aliens before I saw them, and …you were in the dream,” he casually blurted to Tina. “Central Park, what’s up with that?” Tina asked, and stopped chewing her French fry for a moment, staring at Hank. “It’s a coincidence I am here, and in your dream, too, then?” she wondered, slowly and quietly.
The Kick’s nine song showcase set was tight, ferocious; the hairs of some audience member actually stood on end at some points during the show. The woman who struck Hank was seated in the back of the club, with the Kink’s manager, Angelo, who was distracted as usual. Hank walked right over from the stage, greeting enthusiasts on the way, and sat down, as Angelo was waving his petit beringed hand at someone, and saying, “Yeah, ripeness is all. Ripeness is all. Why not?” Tina was gobbling her food. Not taking her eyes off it, playing with it with her fork while she quickly chewed. She might be a man-eater, Hank worried. Instead, he said to her, “Did you live close among hungry hoards in a cave, where you caught small quick things with utensils similar to the ones you are now compulsively wielding?” She turned on him with ferocity and menace, like a teenager turning on a parent, and seethed. “What! You can just leave. Is that supposed to be funny?” Hank got to the point. “ Did you see the alien?” “No, but I heard about it.” Angelo, their Manager, had the biggest smile Hank had ever seen, and the most nasal whine on earth, “Is he high or do cows fart or what. Let’s get a drink,” Johnie said as he walked over, talking about Angelo, then went back to the bar.
GreenRover gradually gathered the gilded endfold of the twenty foot high, faded royal red velour window curtain, and peaked across the street. Coming out of his reverie, he said to Conxcheviveer, "that girl is coming back to the Bar.” “We have to get ready. I will convince Hank with my mind that he has to go to Central Park tonight to see off the shipment.” He concentrated, holding his temples gently. “There, done, just as I convinced him to get the deal for us. He does like adventure, and his will can often be compromised by his seeking ‘win-win results,’ GreenRover analyzed Hank for Conxcheviveer. Conxcheviveer exhaled a cloud of smoke that swirled blood red in the shadows of the curtains. “I have the strength of Ten Makmuts, now. Tobacco is a wonder drug. Pure, tasty, vitamin rich, no side effects. I feel invincible. The Elders are wise beyond reason to have us collect a shipload. Crashing in Charlottesville was a blessing, eh what,” Conxcheviveer went on. Drawing another bubbly blast of his wonder drug, he stood and put on a coat and hat, and exhaled quickly.
The three brains were hosed off the gravel walkway. The human, Hank, made a phone call to his boss, and received instructions. Next day, Hank delivered the coins to BB&T bank for appraisal. That day, too,Conxcheviveer was called in from hiding by GreenRover, and introduced into the dealings. The aliens sent propaganda into Hank’s brain at regular intervals, arguing him out of caution, manipulating him into action. Within a week there were many more calls, paperwork, and the transaction was done: it was arranged for 1000 tons of tobacco to be shipped to a warehouse in Tribeca, and trucked for final delivery to Columbus Circle on Central Park. Rights had been acquired to all the tobacco the alien planet would need for generations, in what GreenRover calculated as nothing less than a very shrewd deal. When Hank finally found enough mental fortitude to throw the aliens out, they went back to hiding, tracking Hank by telepathy, waiting for their shipment to arrive. As it happened, the Kicks performance in New York was on the eve of the tobacco shipment, and the aliens counted this as great luck. Their close proximity to Hank, combined with his performer’s vulnerability, would overcome his resistance. He would be of great use to them.
GreenRover had taken all the blame for the misadventure in Charlottesville, Virginia, and he wanted his credit restored. The aliens had crash landed outside Charlottesville, on a 76 acre cattle farm, and went into hiding. When Makmuts wish to hide, they are clever as cats. Hank lived on that farm, in a small rental. One day, they followed Hank into work (invisibly riding the air) and discovered that he worked in a tobacco shop. This proved such a stroke of good luck for the Makmuts, having come to the earth in life or death pursuit of tobacco, that they suspected other helpful dimensions at work. But, thoughts of luck vanished when three panicked Makmuts were lost to head explosions in Hank’s home because the human woke up at the wrong time. GreenRover himself had only been spared a similar fate by having smoked tobacco first, while the others sadly never got to light theirs. At the time, GreenRover had explained telepathically to the frazzled human Hank (three Makmut brains still steaming, just outside) that Makmuts had gold, the same gold as here, that the Makmuts would die without tobacco, that they would pay top value for a large shipload of tobacco, that they had traveled across 1/22nd length and 4/27th width of the galaxy to get it. GreenRover produced a box of gold coins and telepathed true despair.
“That’s not good for my back”, GreenRover whispered petulantly, hunched over, his right arm reaching behind, his elbow out, his palm away. “Those pointy lead chips are dreadfully pointy if one is in a hurry,” helpfully added Conxcheviveer, the coppery man alien who sat in the pink cushioned, brass riveted, high-back waiting chair. The loft looked to be a boxy, drafty, tin-ceilinged fur-warehouse. “Dreadfully inconvenient, what?” mumbled the green man. He was lit only by patches of artificial street light streaming in temporary openings which his arrival had caused in the interstices of the row of yet settling heavy curtains. ‘Your British accent is improving!” Conxcheviveer added with a smirk of self-amusement. He smoked high quality tobacco from a hookah; shadows of smoke streamed out of his eyes, nose, and mouth, swirling visibly into the patches of light as he spoke. “No one suspects a Brit. I heard that in a movie,” GreenRover said as his shape finished solidifying. “Did you also hear the term, ‘going native?’ Hmmm?” GreenRover looked away. Of course, this did little to deflect his telepathic communication to Conxcheviveer. This intimacy is known to these Makmut creatures as “banuat:” listening-love. “Darn it all to poop,” GreenRover thought and of course was again embarrassed by his naked thought.