Stupid Face

When Stan was 19 he tried to kill his father. It wasn't a capricious, lethal twitch of rage, but an honest go-for-the-throat execution. Only, Stan had failed.
His father, like the rest of our fathers, was an abusive drunk. Except Stan's father still held most of the state's wrestling records for his weight class. After the initial stagger, he quickly reversed his son's choke-hold, pinned him to the living room floor, spit in his face and beat him good. He hadn't a victory in years.
While Stan lay choking on tears and shame, his father quickly went back to the bar and told everybody, everybody being our fathers. So, the next day us guys knew all about it, and once us guys knew about it, our girlfriends knew about it, and shortly thereafter the whole stinking town knew about it.
Stan had been a solid acquaintance of ours. We weren't terribly close, but close enough to know somebody. We all knew how bad his father was, but it wasn't far from our realities. Just different nights of the week, I suppose.
Stan was a good lucking guy, too. But an interesting thing happened to his looks. After the dream of killing his father was pinned and replaced with a town's embarrassment, Stan became ugly. His stature, once strong and straight, slouched remorsefully. And his face, well, it was just hideous. It was as if the demons inside his head, angry with the failed execution, began torturing him with pitchforks. Picking an prodding, scraping and pulling until Stan was no longer Stan.
He dropped out of the JC, and began working full-time as a grocer at Lucky's. He was such a drag to look at that we stopped shopping at Lucky's and went across town to Sam's. In fact, we all possessed a quiet hatred for Stan. He had taken a dream that belonged to us all, and he gave it life. Dreams cannot breathe in this atmosphere. Everybody in this town knows that. Stan's dream, our dream, the dream of killing our fathers was pinned down to Stan's stupid living room carpet and spit on. And now Stan has a stupid face, and we all hate him.

"Between The Gutter And The Stars, People Are What People Are" -K. Friedman

Sao Paulo, 3 a.m., maybe 5--

I'm at that point again. The point where the beers can't do a god-damned thing. I wish they could obliterate my memory, knock me out and put me to bed. But I'm still disastrously awake, sitting at the desk in my motel room. The lights are off, and I am writing in the dark. I tell myself that maybe that last sentence carries weight. Stupid to think such a thing right now. Just write.
I peer out the window upon graffiti walls of exposed concrete. A few heads milling about and some cars driving slow. Somebody told me the transvestites walk this street.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and rub it into my hair. I ring out my eyes. Maybe one more beer will do the trick? I turn to fish one from the ice in the sink. The ice has melted. So has Camila in the bed. Camila. Camila. I like to say the name. I say it aloud this time, "Camila!" She wakes up briefly and spouts something hostile towards me in Portuguese, then melts again. Camila.
I met her this evening at the reading in Madalena. She approached me shortly after I read and told me that my poetry was vile and it disgusted her. I told her I agreed, that it disgusted me too, and that I hate myself most of the time, so I'll buy us a round to celebrate our honesty and disgust...
Now my disgust sleeps there in that bed, wrapped up in my sheets, in my sweat, even a little bit of blood, and she is about to become another one of those poems. Somebody out there loves Camila.

Update

I haven't posted something in a while. I'm sure the three people that read this are pulling their hair out. But things are happening and piling up, and my head is quite heavy these days. I have an agent now. I know he's reading this, so I'll just fuck with him for a bit. He researches blogs, and as he put it, is "trying to find a voice in this free medium." What a guy! Anyhow, he needs a short story to shop around. I told him that "We Honor You With This Chicken," Said The Brother is a phenomenal story, but he is really into this idea of "fresh." My sister would appreciate that.
Anyway, I haven't posted because I have been working on some stories for this guy. I've been switching between two. One is about an American insurance scam ultimately leading to a bad car wreck and not having sex. The other has to do with the idea of going forward in reverse, literally and symbolically. As much as I want the former to work, the latter is consuming more of my head. Secretly, however, I am pulling for the insurance scam. What American wouldn't?
I am leaving for Sao Paulo tomorrow. Be back soon.

Brazilian Women

In America, men are madly infatuated with Brazilian women. Mention something about Brazil, and possessed like a drunk confession, a man will drain all of his brilliance into retelling a story he once heard regarding Brazilian women. Sometimes you get somebody who has even been to Brazil.
I was in a small restaurant having dinner with family a few days before leaving the States. An elderly man and his wife, probably in their 70's, were eating dinner at the table next to us. He overheard that I was leaving for Brazil, leaned over and grasped my arm with desperation. His eyes illuminated. A death grip. It was over for him, I thought. But it was only beginning.
Sternly, fiercely and longingly, "Son, you are moving to Brazil?"
I nodded.
"I was in Rio in '63. Son, the women. I have never seen anything like it. Never-in-my-life."
I nodded again, saying thanks and that I was looking forward to it. He let go peacefully, looked towards his wife, recognized her briefly and returned to their quiet dinner.
I have been in Brazil about four weeks. Every few days I get a letter from a friend wondering if I have done it yet. Wondering if I have slept with a Brazilian, and to please include details if I have. Ok, I have. I have done it. I have slept with about 30 of them.
First of all, they have three tits, golden vaginas, and if you touch them just right they come liquid diamonds. Upon request, their golden vaginas have the ability to clench the base of the penis just before climax to ensure longevity. When kissing, their lips release the most dreamy hallucinogenic. It's a personal trip, so whenever I kiss them I end up in a forest full of boobs, spirit guides and electric guitars. Sometimes my friends Charles is there, but he usually has his own thing going on. Also, they can defy gravity. Once a good rhythm is established, weightlessness is achieved. Sex happens near the ceiling, in the sky, in the clouds, near the moon...They can even descend to hell if so desired. I don't recommend it, however. I tried it on a whim. It's filled with American women, age 17, and they are very, very attractive.

Good Lovers Don't Make Escape Routes

I have been surrounded by lava since I was a child. When I climbed trees, the lava bubbled below. Streams of lava filled sidewalk cracks, so I hopped each one. It sneaked into my house, and slithered through the linoleum. I jumped from couch to chair to chair to kitchen. It quickly found the grooves in the kitchen tiles, and the tiles were tributaries for the burning madness. So, the trick was having an escape route. Out the back door, off the porch, and onto the skateboard. The skateboard to the brick wall, climb the wall and jump to the garage roof. It was easy. I practiced it often.
But my parents were always caught in the kitchen, fighting and screaming. They never made it out of there. They burned up; they drowned. I guess good lovers don't make escape routes. Good lovers try to withstand the heat. They believe their passion to be greater than the elements. They let the lava in thinking it will be a rush, but too often they are violently consumed. Then, they are reincarnated and start climbing trees and jumping cracks as if nothing ever happened.
There are some people who understand what they're dealing with. They don't dive in. Instead, they make little boats and float through it all with the occasional burn. But are they still good lovers? Do they speak to one another at dinner? I hope so.
Since the moment my parents were consumed by lava, I have sailed through it in my little boat from house to house, school to school, car to car, and city to city. I'm in my 15th apartment, 8th city, 4th country and 3rd broken heart. It's conclusive. If good lovers don't make escape routes, I am one of the worst.

When A Teacher Doesn't Teach, But Thinks About Beer

I shifted the classroom discussion into the impact of technology on our lives. I asked each kid, ages 12-13, to tell me how they use technology and what they would do without it, et cetera et cetera. Typical teacher bullshit to pass a Friday, and about 5 minutes prior, Dave popped in to let me know he just put the beers on ice. So, mentally, class was over. Getting through it physically was all that remained. They raised their hands and said things about their Nintendos, MP3s, cell phones and computers. When it was Pedro's turn, he seemed flummoxed.
He is the thinker of the class, and his responses are usually a bit more complex.
"Well, es downloading. I download all de time," said Pedro, startled. He then went quiet and I could tell his thoughts were trailing in darkness.
I didn't really know what to say to the boy, but just getting him to expel whatever was in his head seemed like a good move.
"Ok Pedro. Well, what do you like to download?" I felt ridiculous asking such a question. A human asking another human what they like to download...
"No!" he quickly shouted. His voice remained loud and his eyes were wild. "Es no about what I like or what I don't like to download. But my whole life, I think I can download it."
Some of the kids laughed, but when Pedro didn't smile they stopped laughing.
"You can download your life, Pedro?"
"Yes! My father, he es always filming everything. I am serious. Everything. Then he puts into a file. Always files. A file for everything. I am a file. My seester, she es a file. My mom, everybody, a file. And anytime I have question about when we live in Columbia, or Venezuela, or wherever, I must download. I have so maaany questions about everything so I must always download!"
Wow. I was blown away. This was deep. Poor Pedro, so young and already in the matrix. But again, this was Friday, the humidity was heavy and I knew we had beers on ice at home.
"Wow Pedro. That is really crazy. Technology has really impacted your life. Maybe just stop downloading for a little bit. Ok class, no homework this weekend. Get outta here. Have fun!"

A Mask, A Revolver and A Police Chief

9 o'clock in the evening. Monday night. I'm in Brazil... Christ, let's be honest. I'm in some oil-town, ragged-ass Brazilian holdover. It's edgy as hollowed eyes. And the heat won't relent. My shirt is off now and the beers don't do a god-damned thing after a certain point.
I'm trying to wrap my head around the assassination. The assassination that was on pg. 6 in the local press. The assassination that read "a masked man using a revolver" blew away the Police Chief while he was picking up his wife's prescription in the pharmacy.
A revolver....A mask...the Police Chief? It's getting Western out here.
The reports said it was related to what happened a week before; when this notorious favela gang came to town to have a shootout with the police. The police had apparently shot and killed a member of the gang some odd weeks ago. The favela had been planning the attack since. Everybody knew when and where it was going to happen. So to prepare for the shootout, the city blocked off downtown as if it were expecting a parade. The shootout happened. And nothing happened at the same time. No deaths, just wounds and such. I guess the moral is that if you want something done right, make sure you have a mask, a revolver and a police chief.

“We Honor You With This Chicken,” says the brother.

I'm on the back of Marcelo's Kawasaki and we're speeding through O Centro. Kids shooting marbles. Black woman breast feeding. Trash fires in the street. It must be 100 degrees out.

We cut up a small hill and race across a field towards the mountains, and now we're nearing what resembles a ranch. Chickens everywhere. Squawking and pecking and bobbing and Marcelo says we're here.

It's becoming dark. The humidity says it's only getting worse. We're in a shed now with who I think is his brother. He holds a knife, but a machete is on the wall. On the ground there is some hay, there is some blood, and I'm guessing a killing stump. His brother exits the shed.

Marcelo rubs his hands together, says I'm going to love this. His brother returns with a whale of a chicken. It's going nuts, and it's getting loud, really loud and I hate this. I hear the wings hoping they will finally fly and the brother's feet shuffling for position through the hay. Marcelo yells "Ya!" as his brother becomes too large to be human. I can't feel anything.

The brother looks at me and smiles. He's missing teeth, and what I finally think about is, "he's missing teeth." Then, wham! Cuts through the chicken's neck.

Marcelo whacks me on the back and looks to see how I like it. I look at him like I've suddenly gone deaf. But then, I smile. I look at the scene again and feel the moment's exclamation flush quickly to my face the way a new bruise pulses pain. I laugh or cough, can't really tell, but I'm ecstatic. My throat clears and I'm howling now, whooping it up with Marcelo.

There It Is

Today I leave for Brazil. Or how about: Today a monster drowns in my wake. Its last breathe ignites me to new waters and the cosmic ricochet blasts like it hasn't in years, rattling the green light so that it flickers through the fog just enough to show me it is still there.
Goodbye, and so-long suckers!

Thoughts Are Heavy Tonight

sink, think, sink, think, sink, sink, think, think

rarely float, think, float, think,

mostly float

float

float

never swim, think, swim, think

but swim, swim, swim.

sink from thinking, thinking of sinking

sink, think, sink, think, sink, sink

Nice Today

"Have I been nice to you today?"

Yes, you've been very nice. You gave me orange juice and tylenol. You gave me breakfast in bed. You put lube in my palm and said, "show me how."

You've been very nice to me today.

Murder City Devil

Last night I dreamt I was standing tall above a floor of dead, naked women. I was sucking on blood oranges and carelessly tossing the rinds on their bodies. My hair was slicked back and I wore a black collared shirt, unbuttoned and partially tucked into pinstripe pants. My feet were bare, nestled against the deceased and my face was shaved clean but with scatterings of pulp around the mouth. I ate maniacally, devouring blood orange after blood orange, tossing rind after rind.

I awoke painfully aroused. I had no idea if I was actually turned on by this dream, or if it was simply morning wood. I felt catatonic and queasy. The next thing I knew I was cooking tomato soup for breakfast. When it was ready I brought it to the living room, turned the blinds to block the sun, cloaked a blanket over my shoulders, sat on the couch and began reading an Anne Rice novel.

Shortly thereafter my thoughts got muddled. It was like they were fast forwarding and rewinding simultaneously, occasionally flashing graphic images from the dream . My body ached horribly.

I called my sister and told her I needed to talk and that my head was all messed up again. She said she was swamped at the moment, but would come over as soon as she was finished and to please, please promise to not leave the house until she got there.

I hung up without saying anything. That is about all I can remember...(tbc)

Feeding the Pattern

"I can't do this. I can't do this," she wailed as she shook the grocery bag. "I can't keep on like this knowing you're leaving. " We stood in the street on our way home from the market. The rain fell heavy and the clouds swelled closer to the dark earth.
"If you believe that, say it again and I'll walk away if that makes this whole thing easier. You'll never hear from me again."
Then the bag broke. The eggs cracked. The wine shattered. The milk found the gutter. Some other shit rattled around, too.
"No, No!" she screamed glancing quickly at the mess, then back at me. "That's not what I want!" Won't you fight for me?"
"No. I can't; I don't have the strength right now. But each day I'm with you, you build me up. And I think I do, or did, the same for you. But you're right. Maybe we can't make believe anymore. Look at it." I motioned to the broken, cracked-up mess we made. Her eyes fixed on the mess, and her head cocked slightly to her right shoulder. She smiled peacefully.
"What?" I asked her.
"Funny," she said almost whispering, still gazing upon the mess, now converging into one stream quietly flowing in the gutter to the drain. "How it comes to this. How such a mistake comes to make sense. It's all feeding the pattern."

The Waiting....

Lately, she is calling me pet names like “Shoo-Shoo” or occasionally, “Sparky.” She also smells like cheap vodka instead of that god-damned rum, so maybe I should let the pet names slide for the time being, or at least until she discovers the euphoric twists that gin can put on the brain. Then, maybe, just maybe, she'd call me Saber-Tooth, or Falcon. But for now, with the vodka blurring my edges and putting me on fours, I am Shoo-Shoo, sometimes Sparky.
It doesn’t matter to me or emasculate me the slightest because I'm in the waiting room. She could spit on me while fucking me, then call me Johnny and it wouldn't matter. In the waiting room there is no feeling, no sensation. It's all sterile. Some old magazines and insipid wallpaper. But on the other side of the wall, something will happen. Whatever that something is, no matter the importance it may play in the grand scheme of things, it will occur and then old Shoo-Shoo can kiss my ass. I just need that fucking VISA to arrive.

Lawyers, Guns and Money: The Great Dust-Up

I was told to expect one great dust-up in my life. I had imagined a hospitalizing brawl, or too much cocaine in a weak heart. Maybe an unwanted pregnancy. Something like that.
But Mighty George cooked up something more original, more delicious.
It happened shortly after my 28th birthday. And once the dust settled, my career, money, house, friends and girlfriend vanished. They were replaced with lawyers and cops, fright and paranoia. Looking back on it, I wish somehow guns could have been involved.
As the intermittent days eerily crawled along, as I sold my possessions, drank remorsefully and said my goodbyes to the place I called home, I figured America didn't want me anymore.