Diseased

Wrong Platform

Miss Amanda Beard,

My poor misguided dear, this is what we as Americans would prefer to see of Olympians. Certainly all four of these swimmers are equally as fine a physical specimen as yourself, but amazingly they resist the urge to shuck their swimming attire in support of an organization that epitomizes hypocrisy. Instead they choose to focus on lifelong dreams of surpassing overwhelming odds and expectations by bringing honor and respect to themselves and most importantly their country. Isn’t that what the Olympics should and used to be about?

I’m certain your Olympic sponsors and individual donors had much higher hopes, but there are many that could say the same of their support of PeTA. True animal lovers have sought the truth and turned in droves from support of such a misleading and ruthless organization. Only the naïve or truly radical supporters can stomach nearly ninety percent of the sheltered animals being euthanized despite millions in contributions per year. How could a private organization bringing in excess of twenty-five million per year have a paltry ten percent success rate for finding homes, where in the same location as their headquarters, Norfolk VA, the S.P.C.A’s rate is nearly seventy percent?
"I often receive phone calls from frantic people who have surrendered their pets to PeTA with the understanding that PeTA will 'find them a good home.' Many of them are led to believe that the animals will be taken to a nearby shelter. Little do they know that the pets are killed in the PeTA van before they even pull away from the pet owner's home."-- Dana Cheek, Former Norfolk SPCA Director.

Perhaps the group is not as innocuous as they would have us believe or the cleverly crafted name would indicate. I’m sure if we hear from some of the brass of the organization we have just been sadly misinformed and mislead by the ‘haters’.

"If we really believe that animals have the same right to be free from pain and suffering at our hands, then, of course, we're going to be blowing things up and smashing windows. For the record, I don't do this stuff, but I advocate it. I think it's a great way to bring about animal liberation, considering the level of suffering, the atrocities. I think it would be great if all of the fast-food outlets, slaughterhouses, these laboratories and the banks who fund them exploded tomorrow. I think it's perfectly appropriate for people to take bricks and toss them through windows. Hallelujah to the people who are willing to do it."-- Bruce Friedrich, PeTA Campaign Director, Vegan Campaign Coordinator, Animal Rights 2001 Conference, July 2, 2001

Well that about clears it up. Not only is PeTA vehemently opposed to ‘no-kill’ facilities, they observe few bounds in promoting their cause, including laws! They’ve incorporated or attempted to incorporate the Holocaust, the widely unknown fact Jesus was a vegetarian, and most recently the story regarding the man beheaded on the Greyhound bus, in their wildly successful and tasteful campaign. I’ll leave you with an exquisitely done piece geared toward children, no less.

Williamsburg or Bust

Today I find myself preparing for what seems an arduous task, although in certain circles it would be referred to as a family vacation. Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy time spent with my lovely wife and children. It’s the thought of spending sixteen hours in the small confines of our car before we arrive that has me praying overtime for patience. Without a doubt, my imagination-challenged son, Jacob, will be my nemesis. It seems that a half-hour of idle time at home pushes him closer to the edge of lunacy than I’m comfortable with. In planning our drive I’m tempted to locate and schedule a couple of stops with local Catholic priests who are well-versed in exorcisms. (Even today’s effective cleaning solutions can’t touch the green-projectile vomit on the back of a car’s head-rest?)

This year my wife, Beth, had the privilege of selecting our destination. Since she’s a huge history-nut (I hope the term comes across in the loving manner intended), our vehicle will be pointed in the direction of Williamsburg, Virginia. Although I don’t believe in reincarnation, you could certainly make a case that Beth was some type of activity planner in a former life. In her meticulous eye there is no vacation detail that can’t be allotted, assigned, or otherwise sorted. (Perhaps I’m just miffed that my time in the restroom is always slated last and is never ample to finish my business and complete the prescribed reading).

Last evening, with the production and pomp befitting a royal gala, she proudly read our itinerary (I suppose we saved a bundle on a travel agent). My son was less than impressed and I can’t swear to his entire response, due to the trailing off of his voice as he was banished to his room, “Geez….I thought this was summer vacation, sounds like another boring history lesson!” I had to excuse myself as my volley of snickers grew to a perceptible volume. The piercing glare directed at me let me know there was sufficient space in my son’s room for two.

Fortunately Beth is also a peacemaker and painstakingly modified our journey to include a detour to the Louisville bat factory and museum, which instantly made Jacob’s ears resemble those of a jackrabbit on high alert. As a bonus she also threw in a few hours of shopping at the outlet malls that sent my daughter, Allie, into a state of euphoria that only the hardcore connoisseur of all things on sale can appreciate. So it would seem that if I’ve mentally hardened my cerebral cortex to withstand the onslaught of the drive we should be in fine shape.

Actually I’m looking forward to returning to that area of the country. Beth and I spent the first three years of our wedded bliss in Norfolk/Virginia Beach as I finished my time aboard the John F Kennedy. More accurately, including Desert Storm and a normal Mediterranean six month tour, I spent fourteen months floating in the Mediterranean and Red Sea while she steadfastly waited for her sailor to return to port (at least that’s all I hope she did).

I intend to visit one of our favorite restaurants, Momma Lina’s. (this ain’t no Olive Garden). Momma Lina’s is a truly authentic Italian restaurant, the food, the décor, and the hospitality. Back then, Momma Lina herself would make her way from table to table to ensure her customers satisfaction.

I suppose I’d better dust off my fife and drum and attempt to make room in the trunk for such necessities.

Too Many

There was a time
this shack was cramped
barely room to house just four
with fiddle’s song
we chased the blues
and danced upon its floor

We raised them up
on rice and beans
and tucked them in at night
filled their spirits
with buoyant dreams
groomed their wings for flight

I recall his words
my youngest son
“They say we’re just dirt poor!”
I reminded him
it’s a state of mind
and simply nothing more

Boys to men
dusty fiddle case
Ma took rest eternally
this empty shack
these empty minutes
well define my poverty

Too many days
feeding things
much wiser left to starve
I barely whittle
at this life
I’d always meant to carve

Too many weeks
when floor-boards moan
in absence of familiar feet
too many ways
this empty home
will never be replete

Too many months
in solitude
each breath I pray my last
too many years
spent expiring
chasing days of past

Expectations

Wrought from dissatisfaction
these wretched ivory wings
the dysfunctional refraction
in living others’ dreams

Through love’s thin disguise they perpetuate
by means of remote control
with myopic eyes they orchestrate
the unraveling of a soul

This fragile psyche revealing tears
each day nearer the edge she creeps
unable to sift her desires from theirs
perhaps today brings restful sleep

While parents mourn their personal losses
each feeding the other self-absorbed core
never a child who bore their crosses
but a fallen angel in death once more

A Hazy Night in Coon Holler

“Can you two youngun’s quite climbin’ around on the furniture—like two squirrels high on poison buttermilk! Hop up into yer granddaddy’s lap and let me tell ya a story.”

The two young boys settled in, one on each knobby knee. With wide eyes they looked at one another and then back at their grandfather’s wrinkled face, with all of the anticipation of a coon dog eyein’ a fresh plate of biscuits.

It all begun on a particular hazy and eerie night. As a young boy I could barely keep my eyes from the slumberin’ notion they was given to. My younger brother, Timmy, hadn’t put up such a valiant fight and sat across from me snorin’, so I leaned forward just enough to kick the toe of my work boot against the heel of his. You’d have thunk I’d sent a stray bolt of lightnin’ up his leg. His entire body rose, and stayed horizontal fer a second ‘fore meetin’ abruptly again with the seat. His glassy eyes looked like one of ‘em stuffed deers up on the wall above ya. He swung his head wildly from side to side tryin’ to get his bearin’. Reminded me of the neighbors cat after we’d put ‘em on the merry-go-round and spun him until we seent what he had for breakfast that mornin’. Just like the cat, soon enough he figured what I’d done to him.

Although us King Brothers was only fifteen and thirteen, our slight of years didn’t keep us from a very important mission. We was to sit in the church bell-tower and was proud as pickles to be the first line of defense. You see, the townspeople of Coon Holler weren’t an educated bunch, but they aimed to see someone brought to justice. Most likely, if we caught ‘em, some old boy would be swingin’ in the breeze ‘for sundown.

‘Bout a month earlier a fire destroyed a barn and most of the critters in it. No one knew for certain how old Klem Watkins was, including him, but his advanced years could have caused him to leave a lantern burnin’ long after the cows had been milked. When directly confronted about the possibility he simply scratched his gray beard and admitted he couldn’t recall. The entire community felt badly for Klem, but didn’t think much of it—‘til just two weeks later another fire broke out. This time things wasn’t so innocent—worst part was Misses Bandy and her baby didn’t make it out of the old shack in time.

Old man Bandy had gone off to look for work on account the saw mill had closed and times was tough. Poor old feller—strain of finding out such news when he returned left him on the verge of crazy, some say he didn’t travel far. Just sit by the graves and cried all day, twernt nothin’ he could do, ‘cept what he done I guess. All that pain and grief took hold and the only way he seen out was to swaller a shotgun barrel. Pitiful sight—three fresh graves all in a row; they was a good young family, come from good stock.

The officials of the village called a special meetin’ and the hall was jam packed. Lots of folks was beside themselves, couldn’t hardly come to grips with what had happened, but mostly they was mad and lookin’ forward to a lynchin’.

It had been more than forty years since anyone graced the ‘hangin’ tree’, a large old oak at the north edge of town. Most figured just the simple reminder of the old noose swinging in the wind prevented the need for its use, but that night there weren’t no hagglin’ ‘bout the need for it.

The only decision needed made was who would climb up there and replace the old rotted rope with new. Since no one jumped up to volunteer, I suppose Coot Jeevers felt obligated. Now I don’t know Coot to be his real name, but it fit. Coot was the only form of law this town ever seen. Whether he had any official trainin’ remained in question, but most important he did have a silver badge with U.S. Marshall on it and that’s all the convincin’ most folks needed.

Coot and a makeshift posse come together and hatched a plan to catch the scoundrel that was settin’ fire to things. They was local fellers posted all over town, ‘specially along the roads comin’ and goin’. It was me and Timmy’s job to ring the old church bell soon as we seen anything suspicious.

Well, ‘bout the time we quit laughin’ we heard horse hooves comin’ up the main road in a hurry. Among the haze and excitement in my head ‘spose I seent things I weren’t shore of, but what we think we seen scared the tar outta both us. Poor Timmmy, scart him so bad he couldn’t speak for more than a week.

Once that horse and rider come into view, there weren’t no doubt the two of ‘em been raised straight from the ashes of hell! The rider was dressed in black, his cape a flyin’ and flitterin’ behind him. The black mare wore some kinda metal mask like her mount, but neither of ‘em could hide them eyes that glowed cherry-red against the black. The steam that rose from the mare’s flared nostrils made a whistlin’ sound that caused my skin to turn to goose-flesh.

The rider paused directly ‘neath the tower, as if he knowed somethin’ wasn’t right.
Timmy and me knew we shoulda been ringin’ the bell, but neither of us moved a muscle, for fear he’d climb that ladder and hack us into fish food. Like long-tailed cats in a room full of rockin’ chairs, we sat completely still. Timmy and me took turns a breathin’, scared exhalin’ at the same time might bring unwanted and deadly consequences.

Then quickly as he come, he went. We both grabbed the rope and pulled fer all we’s worth. Soon the bell began to ringin’, louder and clearer than I ever heard it. Once we seen the townspeople arrivin’ at the square with guns, pitchforks, and whatever else could maim or otherwise deter a man, we ceased to ringin’ the bell. It seems no one caught a glimpse of the evil marauder ‘cept us two. As we was tellin’ of the hellish things we seen a flash of light lit up the dark—come from the Carver place and the flames began to crawl up the shingled roof.

Coot told us to stay put and good thing he did, them wobbly knees of mine woulda just carried me in circles. I was still numb from fear, why I coulda set on a porkepine and never knowed no different. But somethin’ happened in the next few minutes, somethin’ dark and evil. A black cloud rolled in coverin’ up that little slice of moon, the temperature dropped noticeably, and a heavy wind blew in from the north, fannin’ them danged old flames. ‘For anyone knew it the whole town was set ablaze. Women and kids was screamin’, while menfolk was runnin’ in circles confused—seems like the firebug stayed one step ahead of the water buckets, first at one end of town then a second later at the other.

Timmy and me was feelin’ pretty secure where we was at ‘til I noticed the flames beginnin’ to show through the roof of the church. I knowed neither one of us wanna be no roasted quails so we made our way down the steps in a hurry, like we’d been called to dinner. Once we reached firm terra I grabbed my brother and pointed him in the direction of home. With a push I sent him off, yellin’ behind for him to run like a scalded dog, and he done just that. Soon after he disappeared in the smoke I too got the hankerin’ I needed to be somewhere else, but seemed I was runnin’ in a pool of molasses.

Not more than twenty yards from the church I heard horse hooves from behind. ‘Fraid to turn around—knowed who it would be. ‘Fore I got up the nerve to set eyes on him, I begun to hearin’ the whistlin’ of horse nostrils. I felt the adrenaline rush through me and my legs was pumpin’ like pistons on a steam engine headed upstream. It seemed like the faster I run the louder the horse hooves got. I shore didn’t know what I wanted to do in life, but couldn’t imagine bein’ chopped up in pieces was gonna get me there.

Soon I noticed the runnin’ seemed much easier—nearly fainted dead away when I seent the gap ‘tween my feet and the ground. The evil one had snatched me up by my shirt collar, just like an old barn cat carries her babies around. But I wasn’t convinced he meant to carry me to a safer place. As the mare continued to gallop I was thrown around like a rag doll on Christmas morn. I didn’t know where we’s headed, but that mare was anglin’ for the cemetery, and this ole boy ain’t none to fond of buggers and haints.

‘Bout the time I seen the entry gate fer the graveyard was when I got real serious ‘bout figurin’ a way out of this thing. Never was much good at cipherin’, but I come to a swift conclusion. My old faithful Barlow pocket knife didn’t let me down, just in the nick of time she sliced through my collar and sent me arse over tea-kettle. By the time I shook the cobwebs free I seent the ground open up wide and the black mare leaped into the sky, before plungin’ back into the fiery pit whence they came!

Just as the story concluded the boys mother entered the room and informed the two youngsters it was time to find their jackets and get on the road. She had listened to the last several minutes of her father’s story, waiting in the doorway. He had recently celebrated his eightieth-second birthday and his failing health seemed to concern everyone other than himself. She knew there had never been a Coon Holler or a marauder from hell, but she also knew that each time they visited might be the last time she saw the gleam in his eye as he entertained.

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

“Pop, you didn’t fill these boys full of craziness about Coon Holler again did ya? Last time we visited they wouldn’t sleep in their own beds for a month.”

“No Ma’am, may God send a bolt a lightnin’ down and strike me deader than a hammer if every word ain’t true!”

“Well I just know you tend to remember things slightly different than most.”

He smiled and used his forefinger and thumb to stroke his chin in a reflective manner.

“Might wanna keep them boys away from the cemetery for a spell.”

Safety in Shadows

Image by: John Good - NPS Photo

“Safety in shadows” a tiny voice rose
as Mike toiled and burrowed down deep
Weary and worn are his little mouse toes
joined by his spirit from constant retreat

Haunted by mishaps involving his furriest pals
swooped up by hawks stalking the fields
They make the tastiest treats according to owls
as they sharpen their talons and beaks

Comfortable for now watching life unfold
from the safety of a burrowed nest
But jealous of stories told by mice more bold
in pursuit of insatiable quests

Then came a day when dusk settled in
Mike knew it was time to save face
But his crafty plan required a friend
which chooses to travel at a much slower pace

He meanders under his friend all dressed in gray
across perilous fields and over distant hills
For not even the bravest birds of prey
are willing to temp his poisonous quills

Identity

Hanging by a thread
conscience full of dread
searching for a trace
of my recently misplaced
Identity

Never had I known
that being fully grown
in my anxious mind
a job could so define
Identity

It now seems quite a blur
this unbecoming stir
perspectives gone askew
in how I choose to view
Identity

My shrink suggests I chill
and prescribes another pill
to ease my troubled mind
in hopes that I may find
Identity

The doctor claims success but I surely must digress
my wife holds reservations about these medications
although it seems I’ve long forgot what it was I sorely sought
side effects are rarely known yet I parade about my home
at every waking chance in multicolored underpants

Fabric of a Nation

Images ingrained upon ‘old glory’
where pints of blood paint her bars
deep within the soldiers’ story
lies mettle to fashion silver stars

Found in tank brigades and mortar rounds
are heartbreak and widowed wives
while battle scenes and grotesque sounds
barely scratch our armored lives

Independence that shapes a nation
whereby fallen heroes pay the rent
from broken souls bleed liberation
and the freedom to dissent

What’s the cost to shed one tear
or stand respectfully before a stone
no earthly fate commands such fear
as the prospect of not returning home

Gaping wounds only time can suture
leaving conflicts’ reminiscent sting
today we salute soldiers past and future
in a land where freedom rings

Timber!

Like ants swarming a hill they scurried past the waiting area, busily moving from one place to another, yet very much like humans they seemed unconcerned with working towards a unified goal and oblivious to the others surrounding them. Only when having to resort to collision avoidance measures would they acknowledge another, and even then in terms of a terse word or a blatant look of disgust. Some understandably were in a hurry to reach a connecting flight and had no desire to deal with the inconvenience of rebooking.

Primarily most appeared firmly focused on business and dressed for success, carrying with them laptops, cell phones, and Blackberries. Twenty years later the means to an end differed, but he could see through the flimsy disguises just as he had then. Stiff collars and power-ties could only go so far in concealing the cutthroat, self-absorbed nature they so embraced. The slow degradation of society had made no miraculous turnaround. Not for even a millisecond did he regret his decision to abruptly severe all ties with such a civilization.

Barry Wienhelm had virtually withdrawn and disappeared from society on July 18, 1988. While working his shift for B & L Logging Corporation it appeared that once again the boss had ordered them into a restricted area of the forest to start clearing. Due to the companies’ huge spurts of growth, the fines for such infractions amounted to little more than a hand-slap. The value of prime, pristine logs that could be extracted proved to easily override the tiny amount scruples that Joey Buford possessed.

Joey was the third-generation “B” in B & L Logging and Barry worked as a team-supervisor that reported directly to him. This arrangement provided for constant tension that Barry could never quite put his finger on. Perhaps Joey’s condescending attitude and lack of respect for any and all rules contributed to his unlikable demeanor. Barry generally had the ability to dismiss his arrogance with a smile, hoping that ‘what comes around goes around’ would soon come, but this particular confrontation started ugly and finished worse. What should have been a discussion regarding business and legality soon degraded into a bout dedicated to personal attacks and eventually into a contest of physical blows.

To this day Barry enjoyed the satisfying thud of his right fist connecting with Joey’s smug, square jaw. Not even the sound of his unconscious body crashing to trailer floor stirred any feelings of regret. However, even Barry realized that in hindsight he should not have fired up the largest bulldozer and either crushed or otherwise debilitated every piece of equipment on site, bringing the operation to a halt for several weeks. Barry could have peacefully protested his employers’ transgressions had he been constructed from different fiber. A cardboard sign just didn’t seem to carry the fury that boiled from within. Barry found the visual impact of a seventy-ton Fiat Allis 31 raging out of control more to his liking.

In the back of his mind, Barry knew the distinct possibility existed that the authorities would someday locate him and bring him back to civilization for prosecution. Although he did take pride in the fact he eluded them for almost twenty years.

With only a few hours separating them Barry already missed his cabin, whose construction required him to fall indigenous pines with only his bare hands and an axe. Those trunks had been stripped by manual means and hewn by hand to fit together perfectly. He missed the serenity of the river, his steadfast companion; a friend which provided fresh fish for his nourishment and more importantly each peaceful morning offered to carry his troubles and frustrations to a destination far downstream.

While it remained fact, Barry had destroyed a few trees in a restricted zone, but the act had been to serve a genuine purpose. Those that had fallen remained on the very same mountainside that had given them birth. In his own mind Barry made a great distinction between creating a shelter for himself from God-given resources and ruthlessly logging vast amounts of acreage in the name of greed under the guise of logging.

The burly officer emerged from the restroom and without speaking a word reached down and unlocked the handcuffs, freeing Barry’s wrist and ankles from the chair. Other than reading his Miranda rights and a brief compliment as to the cabins’ fine construction, Officer Vanderhorn remained a man of few words.



________________________



Barry sat calmly aside his public defender as the jury made their way back into the courtroom. These criminal acts had occurred so far in the past it remained difficult for him to summon any remorse. During years of isolation nature served as judge, jury, and executioner. In his mind, had God interpreted the infractions to be serious enough he would have fallen victim to the great predatory wolves or been mauled by an eight-foot tall grizzly looking for a meal. Since none of these forms of natural justice had befallen him, he assumed he had been pardoned.

Judge Harriet Feldman made her predictable announcement.

“All rise as we hear the verdict read for Langerfeld Corporation versus Wienhelm. On the first count how do you find?”

“On the count of destruction of company property with malicious intent, we the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”

“And on the second count, how do you find?”

“On the count of first degree manslaughter, we the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”

“So says the jury, sentencing will be scheduled for one week from today. Court dismissed.”

Barry’s face showed no emotion. The public defender had dismissed his suggestion that the murder charge could have been refuted as self-defense, but the defender did have a point. It would be difficult proving that a man with a small pocket knife posed a lethal threat to a man wielding a double-bladed axe. Especially considering that Joey had not drawn the pocket knife until a swift blow had severed his right leg at the knee.

Boys Will Be Boys

My mother used to say
via quite a spiel
“Don’t you believe in fairies?
Why can’t you see they’re real?

Suspending disbelief
lying just beyond the brink
if fairies did exist
I’d prefer their wings were pink

I’d mold her from the heavens
if the sprite was a she
what a spectacle of galaxies
my pretty nymph would be

Twinkling stars for eyes
a comet tail for hair
“Angelic are her features”,
say all that stop and stare

Of this fairy I’ve created
Mom would likely sigh and frown
for as you can plainly see
she wears no silken gown

The Door of Tomorrow

She knocks upon tomorrow’s door
weak and weary from the fray
gathering arms from future store
to battle demons here today

Clashing with agents of time
reluctant to extend life’s lease
serving penance without a crime
a sentence without release

Pale blue eyes have seen too much
vibrant curls reduced to skin
the smile belies her fevered touch
and the raging beast within

She borrows strength without remorse
choosing hope over sorrow
trusting in an altered course
through the power of tomorrow

Compound Interest

The pneumatic cylinder hissed its displeasure as it caught the weight of the door. A doctor’s sterile white cloak disappeared into the hallway as the barrier crept closed. Earnest L Whittington took pleasure in such repetitive things. The closing apparatus performed flawlessly while not a single person noticed the contribution, except Earnest. At a time when plenty of thoughts weighed heavy on his mind he dismissed them completely in favor of watching mundane mechanicals perform repetitive work. He himself could not begin to explain the unnatural manner in which his mind worked, but had managed to harness his preoccupation for all things mechanical into something useful. He chuckled as he recalled having been told of the improbability of a man simply listening to an engine and diagnosing which cylinder fired out of sequence.

Soon Dr. Horton would return with the test results in his hand, and Earnest would again leave frustrated, no closer to understanding his persistent ailment. The doctor would read the mumbo-jumbo in his pathetic, inflection-challenged voice.

He waved the chart above his head as if he were Moses returning from the mountain. His enthusiasm indicated that somehow decoding the chicken scratches on the page would miraculously change his patient’s quality of life. His voice struck with the finesse of a four inch needle in the buttocks. Though painful, Earnest promised he would give his friend a chance before he seized the opportunity to speak his own mind.

Earnest and Dr. Leonard Horton had been close friends for many years. Almost fifteen years had passed since the young intern’s car stalled in the middle lane during morning rush hour. Earnest, behind the wheel of his tow-truck, hurried towards his automotive shop as an unexpected detour on Fourth Street had already put him behind schedule. Long before he could see the cause he watched the harried drivers steering to either side of the unidentified obstruction ahead. As he eased the large truck into the right lane he reached down for his coffee. When his eyes returned to the busy street they widened as a man stood squarely in the middle of his lane waving his arms in a crisscross motion above his head. Earnest jammed the brake pedal to the floor, but despite his effort the gap between his bumper and the man steadily closed. He whispered a prayer for an opening in the adjacent lane and swerved in order to avoid the man. Breathing easier he brushed the remaining drops of coffee from his shirt and leaned out his window to voice his frustration.

“Ya fricken nut! Get outta the road!”

The tow-truck had traveled less than two blocks before changing course to assist the stranded motorist. Business had been slow, and he hoped the man wouldn’t have the audacity to ask him to tow the car to a competitor’s garage.

A couple of hours later Earnest had the well-used Mercedes back on the road. The doctor, impressed by the prompt service and unusual circumstances, insisted on making the check out for an additional hundred dollars. He claimed Earnest had been a Good Samaritan of sorts and earned every cent.

“Do you have any questions about the test results, Ernie?”

“Just what makes doctors so smug; pretending to know everything? ‘A hell I don’t what’s wrong with ya, Earnest’ reply, would be appreciated!”

Earnest lip parted as if he wished to continue, but a familiar feeling came over him as his lungs did not fill with air.

“Are you finished Ernie? If you’re dissatisfied, you should seek other services. Considering it was more than a year ago I suggested you see a pulmonary specialist! I continue to see you because you’re my friend and I enjoy your company. As a doctor, I’m doing you no good.”

Earnest’s lungs had partially recovered allowing him to speak in a raspy voice.

“Why did you bring that broken down old Mercedes to me instead of a transmission repair shop after I had already diagnosed transmission trouble? It’s simple—because you trusted me, precisely the same reason I come to you.”

“It’s not the same Ernie. The human body and cars are not the same at all.”

“Bullshit…..you deal in hearts and livers and I deal in timing chains and spark plug gaps. When I suspect fuel system trouble I don’t run a diagnostic check on your brake system. It’s almost as though you don’t want to find out what’s wrong!”

The doctor stroked his graying goatee while giving careful consideration to the words that had lingered on his tongue for many months.

“You want my honest opinion? You have congestive heart failure and since you haven’t visited a specialist and been formally diagnosed and treated. I’d give you no more than a couple of good years. Ernie, don’t you understand? I hoped you would visit another doctor.”

“Boy Leonard, you may know medicine, but your people-skills could use a little polish. You’ve got to ease a man into the idea he’s dying.”

Dr. Horton allowed his disgust to push his head from side to side while he released a heavy sigh.

“You accuse me of sugarcoating your diagnosis and now you say I lack bedside-manner. What is it you want me from, Ernie?”

“A friend, Leonard, and a fine one you turn out to be. Maybe my foot should have found the accelerator instead of the brake fifteen years ago! I’ll see myself out. Think I’ll head home, pull up an easy-chair, and wait to die alone.”

The front brakes squealed as the doctor brought the Mercedes to a halt in front of the trailer. It had been nine long months since the Mercedes had been in for maintenance, the exact amount of time since Ernie had closed up his repair shop. Leonard felt as though somehow he would be betraying his friend if he went elsewhere. He slammed his fist into the center of the steering wheel, frustrated that he had honored Ernie’s last words; most likely he had died alone.

Leonard regretted that his presence, even now had not been of his own accord. He had received a call from a neighbor, voicing her concern over the growing stack of newspapers outside Ernie’s trailer. She apologized for bothering the doctor, but admitted she didn’t know who to contact. As far as Leonard could recall Ernie had no relatives, at least that he spoke of.

He locked his car and reluctantly began the unceremonious walk to the door. The lack of any filtered light peeking through the curtains didn’t bode well for the situation. After two sets of unanswered knocks, each increasingly more deliberate, he tried the knob and found the trailer unsecured. Ernie had never seemed the type to be overly concerned about security. Perhaps he deemed the idea of a break-in less likely than a visit from a friend.

He ran his fingers along the interior wall searching for the light switch. His breathing came in short, rapid bursts as the bare light bulb inadequately illuminated the room. Ernie lay stretched out in his recliner, television remote still in his hand. He hadn’t been gone long. The experienced olfactory senses of the doctor failed to detect even a trace of death in the air. Leonard took solace in knowing his friend had gone peacefully, evidenced by the sheet of paper lying on his chest. If Ernie left a note, it had to be addressed to him.

To whom it may concern…

Leonard, you big dummy, who else would I be writing to? What took you so long, surprised the neighbors haven’t complained about the stench, or maybe they did. I had every intention of calling several times, but I suppose intentions only serve to lengthen my list of regrets. There remains only one piece of unfinished business left in my life and it would seem my procrastination has relegated doing this by proxy. Go to the freezer and you’ll find an envelope.

Leonard did as the letter instructed. He tucked the cold manila envelope under his arm before returning to the chair.

I want to thank you for your friendship. In all these years I didn’t bother to do that. I’ve never believed in fate; with all my heart I believe a greater power placed you in front of my tow-truck that day. For the record, I really don’t regret not having run you under.

In case you’ve forgotten, the envelope concerns the overpayment on your first repair. At first I was opposed to accepting the excess, but you insisted. Times were tight and the bank had sent final notice of foreclosure; confiscating not only my business but the one thing that had given my life purpose. The generosity of your deed sufficiently staved off the hungry dogs. Slowly my situation improved and I set that money aside. As you know I made multiple attempts to return it, but each time you refused, giving a different but equally lame explanation.

Leonard opened the envelope and found a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked inside, in addition to a large bundle of cash.

This is the original loan including the proceeds from shrewd investments. Pretty impressive for a non-Wall Street type, huh?

Leonard, there’s something to be said for familiarity. I’ve lived my entire life in ‘Comfortville’, driving a tow-truck for most of my life for God’s sakes. There comes a time when we must all move on. Promise me you will take this cash and purchase a car befitting someone of your status. I always pictured you in a vintage ‘Vette’; jet-black with lots of flashy chrome. A hot blonde in the passenger seat wouldn’t do you any harm. Doc, you need to live a little, tear up some open road. Punch her once for me, will ya? The ‘Vette’ I mean! Here’s to open roads and pegged speedometers, my friend. Cheers!

Leonard knelt quietly in front of the stone, running his fingers across the deep recesses carved there. It would have been a travesty he could not have endured had Ernie’s marker remained undistinguished from the others. Ernie accepted a simple role in life and asked for nothing more. While he excelled in his field, he never allowed the world of business to override his love and compassion for his fellow man.

His fingers moved from the name, Earnest L Whittington, down the shapely outline of the ’67 Stingray that was carved there.

Leonard turned the key and smiled as the aftermarket exhaust roared to life. Ernie had been right about more things than he ever realized. Leonard had passed on the blonde, at least for now, leaving room from his friend in the passenger seat any time he cared to ride.

Savage Beast

The morning started a little rough when my truck battery decided to play dead. Actually there was no feigning of anything and to be truthful it began more than a little rough. The turning of the key produced nothing more than a click, and I in response invented some new words in my fit of frustration. Forgive me if I misquote and since these are not real words I’m uncertain of the spelling. I believe it was, ‘Fricken-fracken, piece ‘o’ schnacken’!

Locating the right tools to remove the battery devoured my last bit of patience, or so I thought. Perhaps it was the seized bolt for the battery hold down bracket, or when the corroded positive terminal broke off in my hand. It’s very difficult to determine which event caused the unhinging to take place, and quite possibly it had been a cumulative effort on behalf of all things mechanical to persecute me.

Actually my morning/afternoon exercise in frustration turned in a positive direction from this point on. To my surprise the auto parts store not only had a new battery that fit in the same physical space, having the same specs in regards to cranking amps, they had the old style terminals (significantly more substantially engineered).

Not until my drive home did I recall that my wife’s car had satellite radio. Perhaps music does soothe the savage beast. Since neither my wife nor my impossible-to-please teens were in the car I sought out the station of my choice. Suffice it to say I found my fix in the form of a station appropriately named ‘Hair-Nation’, in reference to the eighties bands. The first song that played happened to be Zebra’s, Tell Me What You Want.

Amazingly after twenty-plus years I recalled each line and quickly found my screeching heavy-metal voice. Glancing in the rear-view mirror gave only a visual indication of transformation that coursed through my veins. I no longer saw cheap Walgreen sunglasses and my inch-long flattop instantly became a bleached shoulder-length mane. Reaching for the volume knob I found that once you surpass thirty-eight the digital display appropriately reads ‘max volume’. My image in the mirror became distorted as the bass made it quiver with excitement. I had almost forgotten the art of driving with your knee, but like riding a bicycle it came to me in an instant. Thankfully both my hands had been rid of the arduous task of steering just in time for my ‘air-guitar’ solo.


As if a healthy dose of Zebra was not enough, the rock gods blessed me with Geoff Tate of Queensryche blasting away the last of my frustrations with Operation Mindcrime. As an encore while I pulled into my driveway Rob Halford of Judas Priest reminded me I had been ‘Breakin’ the Law’.

P.S. To those discerning few; you may notice that I could find no images of Zebra, therefore I included the Scorpions, who entertained with ‘The Zoo’.

Direction

Oh cobbled road of stone
you answered desperate cries
leading from this home
you prevented my demise

Oh winding road of stone
your paths are so diverse
they guide me far from home
these roads I have traversed

Oh solid road of stone
companion true indeed
for years without a home
you served my every need

Oh weary road of stone
with keen and seeing eyes
my loneliness for home
exceeds my weak disguise

Oh friendly road of stone
and healer of direction
will you guide me to my home
which alludes my recollection

Sweet Temptress

Sweet temptress of the day
you bring forth deep desire
with your svelte and sultry way
you lure him near the fire

With silken touch and graceful state
your passion penetrates his will
beyond those smoldering eyes of slate
lie voids no mortal man can fill

Encompassed in your velvet dreams
his writhing soul finds sweet escape
bitter sweet her temptress scream
as he assaults her ashen nape

When evil reigns and lust arrives
with bloodshot eyes she stalks her prey
now living as the queen of lies
no longer temptress of the day

True Blue

He reached up and adjusted the brim of his Dodger ball cap so it tilted slightly downward. The flimsy shield made of fabric did little to thwart the rain. This particular May shower had combined forces with a gusty northerly wind, which transformed a gentle rain into horizontal sheets that tested his will. Each of the determined drops slashed at his face causing his patience to wear thin. Mike Cadiz, a nineteen year veteran of the L.A.P.D, was no stranger to the elements, but tonight he wore no uniform. The oath he had taken to serve and protect didn’t stop when he clocked out. The obvious odor of alcohol emanating from the occupant explained the man’s struggle to produce his driver’s license. Many things had worked to bring these two men together, but mostly luck. Good on Mike’s part and misfortunate concerning the inebriated man.

Mike had exited the convenience store when he spotted the car in the parking lot. A black 2004 Chevy Cavalier that matched the description given by the witness two days earlier. The fact that the owner had made no attempt to conceal the heavy damage to the front driver-side quarter panel surprised him. Mike knew it would be best if he called one of his buddies on patrol, but instead returned to his car to wait.

A rail-thin middle aged man emerged around the corner of the mart. His spindly arms appeared taxed just carrying the brown paper bag. The glimmering of brown glass just visible left no doubt as to his purchase. Mike couldn’t fault him; he too preferred longnecks. Mike lit another Camel light while he watched the man enter the car and promptly retrieve a bottle. He took several hurried swallows before setting the beer aside and reaching for the ignition.

Mike’s reliable Seiko indicated the time, one thirty-two a.m. Few if any of the fifteen minutes he promised his wife remained. Fifteen minutes would have sufficed to run out and purchase a pack of smokes, but then this opportunity came along. Although she needed him there with her, he knew his wife would understand. Only a few minutes of effort could prevent a serious accident.

He allowed the black Cavalier to exit the parking lot and followed at a safe distance. The driver continued to utilize his entire lane and occasionally a portion of the opposing one. Perhaps an indication this wasn’t his first twelve-pack this evening. After the man made an exceedingly wide right turn onto a side street, Mike placed the lights on the dash and activated them.

Standing in the elements, Mike adjusted his cap again. The soaked ball cap had given up what little protection it had provided just a few minutes earlier.

“Sir, this weather is nasty. You think you could hurry a little?”

Mike’s request seemed to frazzle the already nervous man. Document after document fell in his lap as he rifled through his wallet. The beam of Mike’s flashlight focused on the center console.

“Is that an open container in your cup holder?”

“Um—yeah officer, sorry about that, been a long day at work. You know how it is.”

Mike then guided the flashlight to the exterior of the car and examined the damage closer. The crumpled metal did seem consistent with what he assumed had transpired.

“Don’t suppose you can tell me what happened to your car, can you?”

“Well—officer, funny thing, my wife ran into the garage a couple of days ago.”

“Hummmm, I see. I swear the insurance companies would go broke if it wasn’t for the female species.”

The man laughed nervously as if Mike believed his story and eventually if given enough time he could produce a valid license.

“You know what? I changed my mind. Don’t bother with the license; I think I’ve seen enough.”

Three empty casings clinked consecutively as they rebounded on the pavement and found rest in a puddle. The minuscule noise they produced paled in comparison to the actual muzzle blast but it was the clinking that caused a satisfied grin on his face. The first round smashed into the unsuspecting man’s temple, predictably expanded before exploding on the far side, carrying with it the man’s last milliseconds of life. Logic would have prevented the second and third rounds from being fired, but this had never been about logic.

Mike returned the model 1911 back to its resting place, tucked beneath his shirt, hiding in the small of his back. He grinned as he realized his preference for his own weapon opposed to standard issue. Certainly there were dozens of reasons he could cite. The silky smooth action and the immediate response the trigger provided were astounding when compared to the overpriced Glock. But on this particular early morning it was the origin of the weapon that gave cause to smile. The .45 had come from the evidence locker. On an off change that a ballistics test be performed the authorities would show up at the last registered owner’s home looking for answers. Mike knew the drug dealer from which the gun had been confiscated and had a pretty good idea he had not rushed out to register it.

Adjusting the beam of his flashlight he carefully collected the spent casings. After inserting the brass into the front pocket of his jeans he reached inside the Cavalier. The beer remained cold, a testament to justice dispensed quickly. Mike guzzled several swallows before pausing and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Aaaaahhh! You’re certainly welcome Mr. Kowalski. I had supposed the second D.U.I. and suspended license would keep you off the street. Regretfully I was incorrect. Oh, it’s no problem at all. Even I realize what a burden a heavy conscience can be. Hope you rest easier now, I know I will. No, no, thank you for the frosty beverage.”

Mike waited until he reached a busier thoroughfare before flipping on the headlights. As the light turned green his foot pushed heavily against the accelerator, hoping to make up a few of the lost minutes. With only a few blocks separating him and his destination he met with delay. Swirling blue and red lights swallowed his rearview mirror. For a moment he experienced a quickening of his pulse; the results for which he was responsible for inflicting on a daily basis. He rolled down his window as the officer approached.

“Sir, I need to see your driver’s license and proof of……”

“Jose, Jose Martinez, it’s me, Mike.”

“Hey Mike, almost didn’t recognize you. You’re lookin’ a little rough, but that’s certainly understandable. Hey, how’s your son doing?”

“I’m headed back to the hospital now, just had to run for a pack of smokes. After two days he’s still in a coma. The doctor says he could wake up any minute, in a week or a month from now, or never.”

“All of us guys at the station feel terrible about what happened. I assure you, if there’s one bit of justice left in this world we’ll catch that drunk that ran your son over!”

“I know everyone is doing their best and we really do appreciate your dedication. ‘Stay true to the blue’, isn’t that what they always tell us? Well, I better get back up there. My wife’s waiting and I’m already late. You be careful, man, plenty of freaks and misguided souls roaming the streets at this hour!”

Today

Drawn to my window by notes slightly off-key
sweet purple dancer you’ve awakened me
thoughts of tomorrow have your forlorn
delicate darling fret not frosty morn
inspire with song and unrivaled display
sing from your heart if only today

Remembering the Fallen

Standing among stones in a field of rest
white markers of strife aligned in straight rows
wind whispers of death and each bloody quest
yet honor and duty speak louder than those

If wounds were assessed in years left behind
many expired only miles from their home
but battles were waged and heroes defined
shouldering burdens not of their own

For a lapse in time and it involved me
each would do well to shake one of their hands
blessed by these mothers and fathers-to-be
bravely and boldly defending our lands

Our flag waves today in part by their death
those fallen shall be remembered upright
for their courage and last ragged breath
is where our eagle finds purpose for flight.

Government for the People?

Perhaps the skepticism and nagging concern many folks have voiced about a reversal in regards to the most recent decision regarding same sex marriage in California has a valid basis. The fact remains that the people of California voted for a referendum banning same-sex marriage. My angst does not lie with this decision in particular, but the troubling trend of Supreme Court rulings that run contrary to the will of the people as a whole and routinely run afoul of precedence. Especially in the ninth circuit court where they have an inordinate number of cases reversed every year by the United States Supreme Court.

This is nothing new. Our country has been held hostage by special interest groups for years and I see no radical change on the horizon. It’s just that today, as I fill up at $3.97 a gallon, that I’ve had my fill and am looking to mount my soapbox.

Let’s take Al Gore for example. That’s ‘Nobel Peace Prize winner, Al Gore. Give me a break! The only ‘green’ he’s concerned about is the lining of his pockets. Are we to believe that his heart is simply in the right place when we learn that this campaign has increased his net worth by nearly a hundred million? How quickly would gas drop closer to $2.00 a gallon if this nation showed serious intentions of tapping into our own resources, primarily A.N.W.R. Does it not seem hypocritical, to anyone except for myself, that President Bush is asking the Saudi’s to increase their oil output while we allow special interest to impede any progress we could make in our own nation? Yes, you can curse ‘big oil companies’ for profiting from these ridiculous gas prices, but the two largest pieces of the pie are the oil producers and our friendly local and federal government, who take a tidy sum of taxes from each of those gallons we pump and have no expenses involved whatsoever.

How about imminent domain? I’m not a betting man, but I’d like to see the government put that to a vote by the people. How many takers will vote for the government to be allowed to offer a ‘fair market value’ for your property in order to run it over with a bulldozer?

Lest I run on forever I’ll not get started on the fallacious argument of gun control relating to a reduction in crime. For now I’ll step from the box and smile brightly about the prospect of paying a higher percentage of my paycheck to bolster current and fund new failed government run programs.

The Chuch God Intended

The church I attend is currently transitioning from a building that was erected in the late 1800’s. Understandably some of the older members hate to see us leave this facility, but in time have come to understand we must.

Today marked the final farewell service and I had been asked by our pastor to write a poem for the occasion.

Ornate and sparkling from the outside
like the golden cup our Master did warn.
A church should reflect the contents inside;
a tapestry weaved, not easily torn.

Souls come unraveled revealing frayed cords
results of this world now and forever.
Yet through the grace of our savior and lord
he is the tie that binds us together

Structures erode like the fleeting of time
but not so the promise of salvation.
The church we desire and of God’s design
shall transcend a specific location.

Closing a chapter, writing another
guided by virtue of God’s holy hand.
Unions between our sisters and brothers,
the only church that God ever planned.

Hide and Seek

Smoothing
contouring
sculpting the surface layer
internal demons we superficially repair
living flesh disguised
as plastic and silicone
until given bodies
are longer our own

perhaps if insides became out
reversed from the start
no longer disguised
those lacking a heart
a grotesque display
not easily denied
venomous emotions
black and festered inside
repressed feelings
having wrought their decay
surely all would shudder
at the enlightenment of such a day

we must master and tame
the beast within
removing the cover
for healing to begin
no longer conforming
to standards prescribed by mankind
perhaps inspired
by the beauty we find

some insist society is responsible
for the great hiding game
but let us choose wisely
when delivering such blame
we individually share in the debt
that inevitably will be paid
for only the weak of mind and of character
are so easily swayed

I am....

a bird with clipped wings
a robin without voice
a harp with no strings
a decision without choice

a salmon seeking a stream
a diamond without reflection
a player cut from the team
a compass without direction

this life that I’ve led
from the day conceived
ensures that I’m dead
without having breathed

The Game

A classic game designed to loose,
advancing pawns display no fears.
Relying upon unlimited moves
reveal the flaw of youthful years.
Fearless warriors the reaper claims
broken dreams spawn forgotten names.

Middle age foresees the plight
only able to extend the duel.
For only a soul void of fight
shall play the role of victor’s fool.
Fully engaged in primordial dance
he bides his time invoking chance.

Wisdom arrives far too late
to alter a runaway train.
Resigned to accept unavoidable fate
he forfeits this winless game.
One desperate deal struck in vain;
the old man cackles as he drives the train.

All the News That's Fit to Print

twisted views in black and white
a conscience only paper thin
pointed news every night
crammed down our throats again

sipping poison from a paper vial
perhaps to paralyze the mind
folded neatly in a pile
lay hours of precious time

vermin concealed in lairs
the purveyors claim no crime
each day peddling their wares
one subscription at a time