Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Less Than 1%

Born into sin
Live to Lose
Die alone.


Monday, April 16, 2007

Hey, that's my shoe.

Today, after work, while walking from the car to my front door, a dark green Converse High Top All Star tennis shoe dropped right in front of me. Straight down from the sky, it appeared, to bounce directly three feet in front of me onto the sidewalk.

I looked up, and in the tree above me, on a branch stood a small thin boy. He appeared to be around 15 years old. He wore a bright yellow shirt, dark blue jeans, and, now, one dark green Converse High Top All Star tennis shoe.

His scarf, at least that's what I thought it was at first glance, turned out to be a sturdy, thick hemp rope. The kind of rope one would imagine used to tie a ship to a dock in Lake Erie. He scratched at it a moment like one would a wool sweater in a hot church, then said:

"Hey, that's my shoe."

And then jumped high into the air.

The snap of his neck reminded me of the sound of stepping on twigs and sticks while hiking, playing Army, in my Grandfather's forest.

I walked over to his lifeless body, brushed back his hair into a better-looking part, and looked deep into his doll eyes as I put back on his dark green Converse High Top All Star tennis shoe.

He seemed happier now.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Monday, January 01, 2007

Happy New Year

From Mac and Lilly.

Good luck to us all.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Brookstone Fowler Goes To The Park

He mourned the loss of his pet.
She died only after a month in his house, turned blue and got stiff.
He buried her in the community garden on Ravenswood under the orange tulips because orange was the her favorite color.
His sadness mellowed a bit now, under the wave of after-work martinis and cocaine in the bar bathroom, but it still lurked in his stomach and lower. He wanted a new pet, something to love and hold again.
He leaned against the black metal fence surrounding the park and watched the children play.
Softball and Four Square and chaotic running around.
The wind hissed through the bush covering half his body, leaves brushing against his suit jacket. His silk tie got caught in a gust and snagged impaled itself on a thorn.
He didn't notice; eyes focused on another blonde girl.
His breathe caught in his throat as he tightened his grip on the fence.
He rubbed himself faster.
She wore an orange t-shirt and little cutoff jeans. Pigtails.
He rubbed even faster, panting silently in the wind, snakes and velvet gloves rustling stirring under his skin.
He narrowed his eyes and looked at the curve of her neck as she ran for a fly ball in center field.
The soft ball rolled to his feet just as he finished with a groan. Temporary relief.
She trotted over to him with a smile, and she picked up the ball.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "My name is Brookstone."

Sunday, July 09, 2006

In the kitchen

I'm waiting for you.
Always in the kitchen with a beer in one hand and a cigerette in the other.
Will I see you out the window?
Or are you already in the room, in my mind?

I don't know what you look like
or what music you like
or what you like to wear

but someday
we'll stand here
leaning against the sink
my hand on that spot, on your hip
your head hair in the crook of my neck
and the wind will blow through us

and I'll know I've found you.