The Keys

The morning air was cold; the iron-grey hues of daybreak stained the constricted, pallid sky demarcating the leafless trees and black silhouettes of the city's skyscrapers against the backdrop of the chilled air. Down on the street in the city's grand park, a man lay crumpled under the regnant branched of a large tree; he'd slept yet another night beneath its sheltering boughs. Slowly he opened his sore eyes and saw above him the low branches, a network of antlers cold and bone-like, and at once he felt himself pinned down, prey to this indifferent entity. He cleared his throat; it's rawness burned him and made him think of scorched flesh. His head was pulsing with sharp pain as though an angry prisoner was inside, hammer in hand, trying to escape by pounding through the cage of what was his skull. His breath was sour and acrid, he could taste still the cheap thin wine. It seemed to him that every nerve of his body was firing at a terrifying rate; was his heart beating so fast in an attempt to break through his chest wall and also escape? He lay there trying to calm himself. Finally, he rose up laggardly, swiping away the leaves and debris from his damp clothing. He pulled the collar of his black overcoat up over his ears and scuttled cockroach-like across the park. At last he reached the arched gateway and stepped out onto the white cement of the sidewalk. The paleness of the cold slab beneath him turned him dizzy. His white hands, trembling, searched his pockets for keys. Had he lost them? No, they were there. His fingers squeezed around them. He had a quick, sharp desire to free himself from them, drop them right there on the walk or toss them into the trash. Useless, abhorrent, smug little pieces of metal; maybe tomorrow.
He was supposed to be in court at 9 am. He looked furtively at his watch; it was 9:07. He would be late. He walked with purpose, his head slightly bent, across to the Courthouse and began to climb the cold marble steps. Near the heavy over-sized doors, a well-dressed man puffed nervously at a cigarette, looked with irritation at his watch, and then at the man ascending the stairs. He dropped the cigarette and with the heel of his shoe, ground at it angrily. At last his lawyer reached the final step and the two men entered the stately doors.

this troubled
lie between us
is a roof leaking into my
cornered ego
the bed is a platform
and a stage
heaped with covers
and daylight is the
enemy of all the
decaying secrets

CHRONICA 1

I’m L now. I wonder if I’ll think L is so bad when I’m C. One time I asked my friend Brooke , “ who the hell would want to be 100 ?” and he said, “ someone who’s 99.” We were tooling around in a beat up Pontiac , just driving around drinking and having fun. We hit a big pothole and he said, “ they should fix the road in that hole.” I thought that was pretty funny, obviously, given that I still remember that xxx years later. Brooke lost a leg in an accident and he had to live in the Rehab centre in Richmond while the money issue was sorted out between his lawyers and Workers Compensation. That was a crazy place that Rehab centre, sort of a cross between a recreation complex and an after hours booze can. Brooke didn’t appreciate all the rules and regulations. After all , he was a young man who had just spent a year of his life in the hospital and now he only had one leg, and gone were a lot of dreams, and here was some asshole with coke glasses and pimples telling him to be in by X1. It didn’t go over so well. We’d be out tooling around in that old Pontiac and he’d wheel in to some dive and make a phone call; “this is Mr Brooke Peters, have a cheque ready for me by three o’clock, I need five thousand for today.” And it would be ready. And away we’d go on one of our champion drunks , and almost always he’d have to have a new used car. The transaction would take about XV minutes. It was exciting to look out on to that car lot and wonder which one he would pick; sometimes it would be a beauty , a gold coloured 1966 Lincoln Continental Land Yacht, sometimes it would be the worst looking piece of shit you’ve ever seen , depending on his mood. We did a lot of touring during that time, taking up residence in some very charming places, the details of which mercifully escape me now. Brooke tells me he’s the only guy I know who doesn’t lie when he says his dink is longer than his leg.

The Crone and Prince Uruz

This is the story of the Crone and Prince Uruz, as told to me by my uncle Hilbert ( Libby)
Andersson, son of Karin Peresdotter, daughter of Pere Olsson, son of Ole Andersson, son of Anders Johnsson.
Deep in the verdant forest near Asgaard, ruled over by Odin, a large majestic Hall welcomed weary wanderers and wayfayers, its heavy oak doors unfolding like the solid arms of an ancient matron, to gather in the battle fatigued soldiers, unfortunate vagabonds and assorted notables who had somehow grown bleary and lost their way. One evening as the moon pressed down like a thumb print on the glassy silhouette of the Hall, a Crone and a Prince appeared at the towering doorway, suddenly, as though out of nowhere. The sentinel, positioned in the Halls' turret high above the two figures, was taken off guard by their abrupt arrival. Without hesitation he signaled the arrival of the two travelers and a guard was commanded to open the doors forthwith. In the noble history of the great Hall, what followed had never occurred; despite an epic and mighty exertion, the guard could not open the doors. Try as he might, the massive portal remained sealed. He quickly called for his fellow guards to come and assist him, but as you the reader might have guessed, their strength did not avail against the obstinacy of the great doors.
Outside the Crone and the Prince became uneasy. Although they could not hear what the guards were saying to each other , they sensed that their entry was somehow prohibited. After a brief consideration they decided to retreat to the forest.
The Prince was relieved; he hadn't wanted to enter the great imposing Hall in the first place, much preferring to rest on the mossy floor of the great forest, his Staff of Neptune vised resolutely in his hand. The Crone was not so relieved; she had spent many nights enjoying the delights and comforts of the Halls' hospitality and was not inclined to spend another night out in the cold. She began to sing mournfully ,

So was Uruz beside the chieftains

like the bright-growing ash beside the thorn-bush

and the young stag, drenched in dew,

who surpasses all other animals

and whose horns glow against the sky itself

while she forged a very crafty plan in the hope that the two of them could gain entrance into the great Hall. Now reader, you may be wondering why the Crone and Prince Uruz were traveling together in the first place. Another question you might have is why it was important to the Crone that Prince Uruz come with her, for it has been revealed that he had no desire to enter the great Hall. These questions will be answered as our story proceeds, for now, let's look in on them as they prepare for a night in the forest...

Prince Uruz was extremely tired. It had been a long,toilsome day since the two improbable companions had stealthfully gathered their scanty property and decamped the Donjon in Helsinborg,long before first mornings' light. The Crone had very quietly suggested, but not without urgency, that they resign from the Kompatica ,adducing convincingly the likelihood of their death should they remain; they were after all, leading by an unreachable margin. Prince Uruz had grudgingly yielded to the Crones' recommendation though before they made the abdication official, he astounded the panel by trumping the Casting Shadows, reciting Infinity/Infinity=?, calculating Feminine Endings, and finally, seeding Intonation Theory. The Crone felt a track of pride rip through her; how was it that the panel had not guessed that they were related? Had they guessed, the two would most certainly not be alive to study the question.

He wearily stationed his Staff of Neptune on a soft drift of spongy moss and dropped beside it. He ached as though a hammer, wielded by a feckless giant, had pounded his entire body. The Crone was also exhausted and weak; she laid down between two deep, guttural roots of a nearby Remmingstorp and pretended to drift into oblivion. Her mind though was on fire, scorching and singeing first one plan to infiltrate the great Hall, and then another...

Morning found the Crone gathering winter grass and berries as the suns' red hues bled onto the forest floor. Prince Uruz lay very still, unaware of the events about to erupt. The Crone had decided to poison herself, reasoning that Prince Uruz would have no choice but to demand entry in to the great Hall so that she could be attended. She chewed the winter grass and berries into a soft pulp, then spit the mash into her cupped hand. From a small leather pouch which swung from her neck, she extracted four large pinches of Myristicin, which she stirred into the mixture with her long, weedy finger. In an instant, she popped the poisonous gruel into her mouth and swallowed. As she entered the clearing , her back arched in an grotesque spasm , her eyes bulged as though squeezed from behind their sockets, and a shocking moan discharged from her bleeding mouth. She quavered like a saw blade stuck in wood, and collapsed into a shrieking, convulsing mound..

Would you be surprised dear reader to learn that the two were indeed lodged in the palatial comfort of the Great Hall by mid morning? This is how it came to pass; the Prince awoke just as dawn threatened with a grey and gauzy light diffusing the camp. He arose, saw the old Crone sleeping soundly and very furtively, and very carefully, bent over her and plucked four large pinches of Myristicin from her pouch. You see, he had reasoned that if he poisoned himself, the old Crone would surely be able to incite the sympathy of the guards, and gain access into the Great Hall, so that he would be attended. He decided to time it just perfectly so that the effects of the poison would be in full vigor right around the time the old Crone returned from gathering their morning berries...

They were found by a sentry making his early morning circuit. Indeed a cart was dispatched and the two were gently loaded upon it and brought through the looming doorway. And so it was that the old Crone and Prince Uruz were the guests of honor that evening in Valhalla.

hard kick

inside the kaleidoscope fragments of barbed
wire lively as lightening pierce the soft
tissue of comfort electric shards
of bottle-green glass dance
with breathing beads
of cerebral sweat
fugitive opioid
receptors play
hide and seek with
dopamine defectors
while orphan endorphins try
to join in from the sidelines but cant
this is the hard kick, this is the moment to moment
the coming down off beauty

It's hard to get enough of something that almost works.
Vincent Felitti, M.D.

ah heck

dionysian fractals squirming on the cutting room floor not fit for the final production where's my velcro dustpan a Hans Vandekerckhove ' series Belgium' shopping bag and mothers milk tinctured with little yellow tears the colour of strong piss that's all a woman needs better yet some souped- up Hara comic character in commedia dell'arte harlequinade usually dressed in multicolored diamond-patterned tights masked and carrying a wooden sword or magic wand to have tea with

Percussus and Polaris

true , magnetic or grid north, does
Polaris care if the
fall is being folded into
our beautiful summer
you noticed i killed that
spry spider and
now it has the noble
status of a scar
or a skin of truth
stretched over the
drum of time

i'm silent you’re the queer damp angle at the corner of my eye don't want to wake you only want to watch those slick undesigned maneuvers you make with your mouth it's all in the mouth I'd swallow a corkscrew to hear what your mouth is thinking red birds jab disinterestedly at your liquids you walk by my thoughts but you don't stop to say hello

I've been looking into the mythology
of sturdy humanity
and the filthy noise of the
clapping masses
excuse me i have to exit the stage
while Mother Teresa shouts
break a leg

i might drink the water in your thoughts to understand your dark fluency and quench the dry candle dying behind your black eyes with juice pressed from these syllables if I thought you would come back to life.