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
naked
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.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

There are no more Denominations,

Only Denomination$.

Recent Fragments

I didn't give up on you
I gave up on me.

I've lived a thousand lives in my head.

I'm thinking of those hot August nights.
Do you think of me when you shut off the light?
I'm driving the streets in a dream,
numb muddy emotion
Could I be the pillow for your tears?
Could I be the mirror for your smile?
I still hear your laughter; it echoes on my empty street.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Shape Changes at Night

A sharp pointed cornered Cube plops into the Amber Liquid.
It swirls clinks plinks in the sunlit reflected glow, bobbing among the waves and eddies.
The corners soften, then smooth, then round out.

The Cube becomes a sphere,
and then disappears.

Only a memory.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Q&A

"I see you have a cross hanging there. Are you Christian?" she asked.
"No."
"There's a Koran on your shelf. Are you Muslim?"
"No."
"Here's some Saint Votives. Are you Catholic?"
"No."
"I see some books about Buddhist teachings and essays. Are you Buddhist?"
"No."
"Hey, a tape of Gregorian Chants. Are you--?"
"No."
"What about this tape of Chinese Pipa: are you--?"
"No."
"What about this I Ching--?"
"No."
"And this green bud next to the Peter Tosh CDs: do you believe in Rasta?"
"No."
"And here's this Anhk hanging over the mirror--"
"No"
"Well, what are you?"
"I am nothing. I am Everything. I am Nothing."
"Oh."

Saturday, March 25, 2006

I cannot see what is ahead of me

But I can still hear what has been left behind me.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Brookstone Fowler

Shadowy Figure

The midnight-blue Ford sedan parked across the street outside his kitchen window had three parking tickets. They stuck on the driver's side, fluttering in the breeze. It had sat there for weeks before Brookstone Fowler actually noticed it. Until it caught his eye, it had merely been part of the daily background. Another car parked against the curb with other cars of other colors lined up before and after it; it blended in quietly with the neighborhood like the hundreds of cracks in the sidewalks.

Brookstone finally took notice of this Ford only because, one day, a squirrel perched on the roof and nibbled away at a single kernel of corn rotating quickly in its tiny paws. The crackling crinkling noise caught Brookstone's attention as he walked toward his apartment's stoop after work one day. After this moment, he became aware of the car's presence and noticed it everyday for the next week.

At the end of that week, coming home from work after five days of paperwork, office gossip, hundreds of cups of coffee, a mediocre job evaluation, a bad date, and long nights in front of the television, he saw that police tape now blocked the street near the car, and the car itself penned in by a square fence made of this same tape. Three police cruisers, a police truck, and one detective's car sat idling near the tape's perimeter while the drivers and their partners either stood around the car talking smoking cigarettes except for two uniformed police men. The two stood at the now open trunk of the Ford, bent over and pulled something large and bulky out and onto a stretcher laid in the grass by the curb.

A body.

The body of a 66 year old man, Brookstone would later find out reading the next morning's paper at work. The beaten man had lain in the trunk of his own car for nearly a month, laid there bleeding from a messy partially cut throat which is what killed him, not the beating. He had lived only a block and a half away from Brookstone's own apartment.

He watched the police inspect the car's interior and trunk, looking for identification or fingerprints he figured, for a few moments before he entered his apartment. Slightly shaken up by the site, he fixed a cup of Earl Grey and smoked a single cigarette while leaning against the kitchen sink. He ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and thought:

"Jesus, the evil people do to others. It's horrible."

He turned on a local classical radio station to further calm his nerves as he sipped his tea. The particular piece playing twinkled and danced with lots of high-strung violin plucking. He thought he recognized the tune, but its name remained lost in time, so he gave up trying to remember. Instead, whistling slightly, he walked into the bedroom, setting his teacup and saucer on the endtable.

He checked the fluids in one of the two I.V. bags hanging on metal "trees" to the left of his bed. He made sure the drips continued their steady, monotonous pace; one nutritional drip every three minutes. The other bag, which timed a slower drip of once every three hours, looked nearly flat like a clear Helium balloon that floated at a party for far too long. Only about seven drops of fluid sat at the bottom waiting to slide down the tube. He removed the bag, and went into the kitchen where he wrapped it up in a couple of plastic grocery store bags and threw it away. He opened the fridge, pushed aside a bottle of Champagne on the lowest shelf, and picked one of the matching bags. He noted he only had seven left and would have to pick up more later this week.

Back in the bedroom, Brookstone replaced the bag of tetrodotoxin and resumed the slow drip. He removed his white shirt and black pants, taking care to hang them both in the closet, smoothing out the one or two wrinkles that caught his eye. He removed his white boxer shorts and threw them on the bed while opening the single drawer of his nightstand. From the drawer he removed a tube of K.Y. Jelly, shut the drawer, walked to where the I.V. "trees" stood again, and looked down.

At his feet lay a twin mattress covered in brown stains in the middle and yellow stains closer to his feet. On the mattress and these stains a naked teenage girl moaned softly, making rocking motions side to side, the nylon ropes on her wrists keeping her from completely rolling over. The grey duct tape on her mouth contrasted greatly against her pale white unblemished skin. Brookstone stared at her half-lidded blue eyes and whispered,

"Jenny, I'm home now, dear."

He didn't know if that were her name or not, it was the name he gave to her after picking her up outside a local high school. It seemed a good name for a cheerleader; at least, it was a good name for a cheerleader he had known of in his high school days.

He opened the K.Y. tube and squeeze a little into his palm as he kneeled down between her spread legs. Her pubic hair had started to grow back from when he did a, self-admittedly, poor job shaving her a week or two ago. He would have to do a better job next time, maybe in a day or two after work. He worked the jelly in and whispered to her,

"The evil people do; it's horrible, but you'll be safe with me."

Sunday, January 08, 2006

When Is It Time To Leave The Party?

When is it time to leave the party?
How do you know?

You sit alone on a too small couch watching everyone laugh and drink and smoke and smile and kiss and gesture and gather candy and cake while you sip your drink

Watching.

Friends come by where you sit
or strangers
and you forget for a moment

the constant nagging sadness

But then, as parties tend to do, the crowd shifts and mingles
and you're alone again with your thoughts and sorrow
with nothing to say
so you sigh and sip and smoke.

How do you know when it's time to leave?
When is it time to walk out the door

Go Home?

Once you open the door
you have to shut it completely
Forever
You can't allow yourself to come back in because you'd look like such a fool
Like you didn't mean to leave, like you can't make up your mind.

Is there a better party on the other side?
Up the block?
You may miss something here if you leave too soon,
but when is too soon?
How do you know when you've overstayed your welcome

Your time?

If you left now
some of the party-goers may miss you,
but, as parties tend to do, you'd be forgotten after a few more drinks and songs and
Time.

Isn't it time to leave the party when you stop having fun?