Poetry and Fiction
 
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Opiate Drive
the darkness in my room once again unbolts, earthquakes open
and a thousand rocking chair bones of my ancestors
shake forward out of every corner

gathered on the ceiling, their stony faces begin to crumble
granite tongues go liquid and wag their genetic spit
while I lie naked as history
my DNA locked-up like pebbles in a fist
caught fast in our lineage of an opiate drive

meanwhile, the racket in here has gone deafening
what with all the walls turned tombstone
and those dry tongues of my mother-language
licking like addicted children
any possible light from the air

though outside the sun still clicks merry on its very yellow axis
making Apollo-nods heard loud round the world
the altering of rivers, mixing of grasses
and how this bright symphony blares
exploded flashlights under my door
shafts of sing-song street noise now also chiming in—
honking delivery trucks, brake squeals—a clamor loud enough then
to scatter shadow and shift temporarily
this inherited gritty sand in my blood
  Outside it is Autumn, more precisely Halloween, and afterwards when he leaves, a certain dew of sex still clings to his body
therefore the air for him is unusually chilly.  In the meantime, an invasion of trick-or-treaters has by now spilt out onto the sidewalks,
are floating low and dark around him like snickering ghouls and since the neighborhood is indigent Hispanic these ghouls snicker
loudly in Spanish.  Of this he takes note.  Takes note Gerald Hansen, Esquire also does particularly, how many of these ghouls are
wearing Frankenstein masks.  How strange that so many have versions of the same identical rubbery monster visage which seem
to be floating by him much more illuminated in the pumpkin glow of streetlights.  Thus Gerald Hansen, Esquire deduces, with
certain degrees of self-satisfaction, that this neighborhood must share a common store.
All the while from above—from mapquested views of Gerald Hansen, Esquire scurrying along among these dots of costumed
children—panoramic god-vistas afford him the unfortunate look of an insect.  Like, perhaps a beetle.  A darting black beetle unsure
of itself as it scuttles along bald in tiny tweed jacket and even tinier professorial glasses.  But then the beetle’s itty-bitty car has got
to be parked close by although from above the beetle doesn’t seem to be remembering.  Has already collided with several specks
of the foreshortened Frankensteins just as if he were bumping around in a pin-ball machine.  Grabbing his chest, the beetle is next
seen tripping over a pink dot of chiffoned princess and stumbling to hit pavement, he gets joined by a crowd of Hispanic mothers
who move in and hover over him like a tiny Pieta.
His hip hurts.  Of this Gerald Hansen, Esquire takes note as he lay heavily life-sized upon the sidewalk breathing shallow, and how
this doubtlessly means that it will be raining soon.  His shoulder hurts too, however.  It is shooting sharp fatal messages down from
his pounding heart to his aching wrist-bone which in turn ricochet back up in forceful stabs at his skull.  A series of flashes begin as
well on the backsides of his eyes and he scrutinizes how they are just lightning—he thinks—spectacular lightning, similar to a
painful orgasm or perhaps fireworks which somehow hurt.  Images of his wife start to flash in, faraway at first but coming fully into
flickering focus alongside snapshots of his two grown children and cornflower-blue house suburban.  Every fluffy dog he’s ever
owned, rough-barked tree he’s ever touched proceed after that to split open between the flashes and spread across his brain like
a misfiring atomic army possessed.    
What is seen from above seldom occurs exactly as viewed below, therefore the god-vista overlooks all of this minutia of interior
lightning storms.  Doesn’t obey natural laws either, so as a result Gerald Hansen, Esquire’s skyward celluloid may be rolled forward
or backward to offer a more far-reaching analysis.  The god-vista choosing to perceive his tiny beetle form in a reversal of this fixed
collapsing moment on the sidewalk.  His insect legs supernaturally propping him back up again to his prior stance as those specks
of Hispanic mothers instantaneously scatter, return to where they’d been standing and the beetle then trots backwards, back past
all those previous trick-or-treaters until he disappears finally into a monopoly-sized home on the shabby block.  God-vista vision
bending natural law through the home’s earlier afternoon’s sunlit roof and there he is, Gerald Hansen, Esquire, bedframed naked,
his rotund hairy slick beetle belly and all mounted on a senorita alongside green flecks of cash on a nearby nightstand.
Nevertheless, sprawled weighty on the sidewalk Gerald Hansen, Esquire dutifully remains in real time.  And still towered over by the
band of screaming Hispanic matrons—with their Frankensteins in tow—his interior lightning storm continues.  And stare he does,
watches, contemplates coolly the flashing flip of pixilated nostalgia as it unrolls on the backs of his eyes like a documentary on his
very own infinity.  Without any knobs, switches or buttons however, he is unable to stop, choose or cross-exam any of the flashing
images.  Except for one.  One which keeps adhering together and presenting itself forward.  A flickering image of a waitress at
Denny’s where he had dined several weeks before.  This, the waitress’s visage halts, hesitates tactilely, even succeeds in
waylaying the lethal pains discharging down Gerald Hansen, Esquire’s limply outstretched arm.  Yes, there she is, that sexy
waitress, bursting utterly into perfectly formed focus with her long brown hair and straight white teeth, her maroon uniform tightly
sporting a flimsy-looking zipper.
Although from on high, things look very different.  Still in rapid rewinds, Gerald Hansen, Esquire—that is, the darting black beetle of
him—has reversingly located his itty-bitty Lexus and he is backing up out of the grungy Hispanic neighborhood.  Architectural-
model-sized trees, people and buildings flank quickly past the car as the sun whirls back to its preceding mid-morning position.  
Pausing for a few moments, stopped at a stoplight, molecules in the car suddenly begin to move and stretch, momentarily bend
and yield—all steel, plastic and rubber brought under control of anti-natural laws—and flattening themselves into collections of
transparent prisms, further eternities of Gerald Hansen, Esquire get revealed.  Crouched in its bucket seat, the beetle is reaching
in with antennae arm to the glove box where it extracts an orange pinpoint of a prescription bottle.  And pinching out a grain of blue
before the bug mandibles can even open to chew, a heavenward lens zooms in and spells:  

P-f-i-z-e-r V-I-A-G-R-A    

The Denny’s waitress is no longer merely smiling.  Projected on the undersides of Gerald Hansen, Esquire’s fluttering eyes as he
lay upon the rough sidewalk with tickles of candy wrappers blowing around him like paper vultures, she is also seductively undoing
her zipper.  And the zipper takes time, forever, an eternity elapsing while Gerald Hansen, Esquire grins from his sideways position.  
The girl’s lips next part open in a throe of passion and she starts mouthing at him Os of seduction.  Moans and groans which, to
Gerald Hansen, Esquire sound strangely as if they are rising in volume only to separate off into garbled syllables although the girl
is not moving her mouth at all properly for speech.  Is it the girl, he wonders and he ceases smiling for a moment, for those tones
do sound rather crisis-laden?
The god-vista view has by now kept going.  Speeded up and skipped past large chunks of the beetle’s history.  Following Gerald
Hansen, Esquire’s bug-tracks backwards on its individual timeline, it has watched the beetle move in and out of many a quick
turnabout hours spent:  countless days at a tiny desk scribbling away lawyerly paperwork—its little bug arms elbowing quick with
pen—or innumerable months passed flipping through specks of books on miniature oaken library tables.  Back the beetle is traced,
followed.  Back past its first, second and third marriages, the second bearing both son and daughter, even further past all the paid-
for sexual encounters and coerced trysts with subordinate coworkers.  Every high school prank and stolen first-grade pencil
passes fleetingly by in vivid Technicolor.  Until finally, rapidly unwinding back across a succession of highways lined in Ohioan
golden farmland, the god-vista travels, zeros in and comes to rest upon an infinitesimal square of hospital where the beetle was
born.     
Afterwards, When He Leaves
POEMS
May 2010, "Childhood Collarbones", Conflictus Review
2009, "Scalp Feminine", FORTH Magazine
1994, "Because of Sex", "Red-Overflow", "Troubled Knuckles", First Draft Literary Magazine

SHORT FICTION
2009 May/June, "Remington", FORTH Magazine
2009 February, "Remington", Journal of Truth and Consequence

NOVELS
currently seeking publisher for novella, "Miranda Begins"
excerpt from Miranda Begins
 If love is a drug then I refuse the syringe.  I refuse to be glassy-eyed and long-limbed, with sexy saline dripping down the length of
my thigh and skin.  Though judging by this all-too-familiar, dumbfounded look on my American face, I know I’m not alone in having
been stuck with one of these stupid hypodermics.  Still, regardless of how it all begins, and despite even a best imagined poetic
ending, what’s most important to know is that in the meantime for me, particularly the whole time for me, never once has she
stopped whispering in my head:

 
Sometimes you gotta do risky things, Casey or you’ll never discover your grit.

 This she whispered, Miranda had first whispered with cigarette dangling, a beer can sweating bullets against her palm as the dark
parking lot we’d been standing in unfolded its black construction paper all around.  Last June, right when it begins, when a fly
landed on my cheek and a car ticked off hot to cool, how I’d just stood there helpless in that dark parking lot while a Cupid syringe
out of nowhere stuck me with a bunch of its pink heroin arrows.  

 Eureka/Euphoria:  even this girl’s repulsive gum-smacking is attractive.

 Though that was then and this is now with just me and my long limbs sitting cross-legged alone on a mountaintop high above Los
Angeles watching a November sunset touch ablaze Griffith Observatory.  The angled shafts of that sideways sun trying to set
aflame the famous planetarium’s copper dome so I go ahead and wish it down upon my entire motherboard city below.  Imagine
windy infernos flaring up in every patch of the city’s tinderbox grass.  Fantasy fires breaking out everywhere which, of course,
would eventually scale up here atop my mountaintop perch and singe my feet with blue tongue tips to shape-shift out a forever
cobalt vision of where I first see her.  Inside a blue-clapboard, dried-out lawn of a house where she’d first been perching on a
bathroom vanity with mascara wand in hand, draining the mirror of its very need.
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