Flesh Out

Her hips navigated the crowded formica deftly, banking high at the turn and counter-balanced by three or more bowls of the vicious-looking stew they served. Rare brisket floating face down in the deep end of something eternally referred to as "the special." The rest he could handle, double-barreled egg rolls steaming atop rice noodles, green onions and cilantro.

His eyes held her a little longer than usual in his sleepy gaze, giving anyone watching a hint as to his next pleasant dream. A regular who ate everything on the menu with a fork, he'd awkwardly strike up conversation with Gina whenever possible. She'd learned his preference for S151 over S150 and why. She'd heard bits of his life story between the holy basil and the fortune cookie. The fact was she felt she had probably gleaned more about him in the last six months than his own mother knew about her boy now. She feels him watching her even when she is preparing the Cafe Sua Da behind the counter, her ego waffling between flattered and disturbed.

He'd spend countless meals downing Asian Fusion and working out why her lower back hides behind what will eventually turn out to be a Rohrschak dragon. At $7.25 a pop he gleans everything he can about her. He'll use up all the rules he ever learned in bars from Frogtown to Uptown, from the failed parties that never stood a chance; and not once will he see that here a whole different set were in play. It's like war. Each side throwing down not the best card, but the next one, either to be taken prisoner or to prove that the value of what you have is wrapped up somewhere between chance and timing.

With her it wasn't so linear. With Gina it was a complex network of connections, visible and opaque, which branch out and double over like the family tree hand-drawn in her uncle's room. Rules of clan and color-schemed bloodlines. Infinite walls to keep the in in and deviations of body logic outside, out in the world better left to its own.

Great Experience and the Next

The Vita.mn Summer Fiction Contest reading event at the Brave New Workshop in Uptown on July 29 was a great experience. I met Christian, the host along with other local figures in the local lit scene. The cafe area was teeming with small cliques, darting eyes taking mental notes. I half expected to see Capote in a corner holding a group of fans hostage with his effortless tales of the scene.

The top ten finalists read their pieces throughout the evening, and they were all enjoyable in their diversity: from dour and earnest to laugh-out-loud funny. I was in extremely good company.

Yesterday the new issue of Vita.mn was published. I was the 2nd runner up, and my story was published along with four others. You can read them here.

The whole experience, a rare one for me, has been heartening. I feel I have the confidence to put my work out there the way I should have been doing all along.

What's next? Walrus Magazine's "Guilty Pleasures" writing contest. Participants are encouraged to write a gripping/titillating/action-packed first paragraph of a novel in one of a list of genres. I submitted something last night. The genre? Western! More here.

VI. Cirrus

On the side street to my left, Locust Avenue, I see passing thoughts gather in corners to be swept away by street cleaners and the violent storms Autumn has coming.

A group of teenagers approach with the scowl typical to those who know how much life hates them. They look cirrus, stopping when they reach me, and their communal angst recedes into comical interest. A small victory is needed and making a stranger uncomfortable is as good a win as any. I do not fault them for this. It is a trait I can almost remember.

"What's your deal, dude?"

"You. All of you. The street you're walking down."

A look of confusion crosses them, except the speaker - the apparent alpha - who tries another tack.

"Reading books, huh? Let's see one."

I can see it in his eyes. Rumors that smell of arson. Dogs kicked in face of defiance.

"I can't." I reply ruefully. "It is not the way."

He pauses, silently finding his way between my clear refusal and the notion it might be for good reason.

"These are the words you may read, but this is not how you are to encounter them. This is the short cut in the woods best left untaken. You are the future, the whole future, and you have to come upon these things at the right time or not at all. We can't fast forward the natural progression. Us meeting, right now, is the clue you have to make due with. It may be three, seve, or even ten years before you discover the connection. But if there is any hope for us at all, you have to be the ones to figure them out. It is a slow riddle told over the course of time and only as a result of your own actions. I just figured out one meant for me, just now, before you walked up. I discovered the last part here on page 73. Let me show you..."

With that I read them the passage aloud, ensuring they understood all the words and the meaning of the word 'coda' before closing the book.

"I first discovered this notion when I was 8, while on the playground. It stood, as it were, on the other side of the street, and I could barely make out the colors of its clothes. It wasn't my time to understand, just start the process. Only today, today, do I make the connection meant for me. You look at me now the same way. You see my suspenders, my linen pants. I look like I'm from another time. It bothers you, ever so lightly. But now the connection has been made. Now your fuse has been lit. Now you are to walk to the end of the street, take a left or a right and continue to countless more years before the circuit completes itself. Only then will the light catch and shine for what you have been waiting to see. Thank you, and good luck."

With my monologue finally over, the lanky leader laughed a single breath before ushering his platoon further down the strip. With bravado and headshaking I watch as they catch themselves in each storefront window they pass, checking for biceps warped in the hope of glass, a carriage rooted in backbone, wondering perhaps if in the next or the next they might grow older or at least a find themselves little closer to becoming.

Pome for Liam

hot saturday
oblique lemonade laughter

smiles in place of words as water hoses
feed insect tributaries, cities
whose future is up for grabs
in the afternoon sun

mud pie appetizer
picnic reveries

deep breath my boy
summer begins

Good Week

I am in the top 10.

More information here:

http://www.vita.mn/event_detail.php?event_id=78723

Maybe I'll see you there.

V. Nimbostratus

Motorcycles blast by an older

Norwegian couple, who squint
their eyes at 2009

Red clay and stone

a husband can manage, he is built

of hard things, but here

How can a man gather the harvest

in the face of madness?

He trots across the street at the sight

of another bad dream on its way

The Ducati growls as it passes

hoping to see the past show its fear

~

IV. Altocumulus

IF YOU CATCH IT AT THE RIGHT TIME IT'S LIKE A DREAM,

not necessarily a pleasant one. An entire town made up of Laura Ashley

virgins and their more fortunate counterparts.

Heat waves rise from the roofs

of parked cars turning them

and passing bored faces

into active mirage

The whole place is hungry

like the summer that stifles it.

The heat and bodies and faces

suffer it with a pleasure rooted in

the pain of old men.

Motorcycles roar past small children

growing accustomed to the sounds

to which they will contribute as fully

licensed voters, fists and all.

Their faces contain the mix of innocence

and toughened flesh needed for their future here.

Somewhere secret plans are already being made

to join its ranks.

What must be purchased and paraded aloud

begins to take up the space left vacant by lilacs

and fading wishes. It is too much.

As it has always been.

Blood itself is maturing here.

The asphalt sees to that -

its reason for being.