written while heading through Seattle, short hand, composition notebook:

Was at an Airport of sorts
and looking through a gap
in the backside of a tall tower in the
center of the terminal
which appeared to be a
control tower
as well as a vending booth,
I could see the vendor,
and could see
Meatloaf talking to him,
and Meatloaf was wearing a black t-shirt,
with the name 'Meatloaf' on it
in large Red letters.
I eventually made my way over to him,
and I went to shake hands with him,
& I said something to this effect:
"I just wanted to let you know
that I thought you were great
in Fight Club."

There was a certain awkwardness
and difficulty in resolving
the appropriate way to shake
hands.
We tried first for a knuckle to knuckle
gesture,
& he seemed more comfortable
with this particular method,
though,
I attempted an open hand gesture,
and this threw off
the fluidity & progress
of the entire event,
so somehow he slips a small
toy robot into my hand
which is still in the
packaging,
which looks to be that of
a Hot Wheels car.

Then I begin talking to
the best of my ability
about his music:
"and I mean, your acting is
great in addition to your albums,
like
Bat Out Of Hell was a little
before my generation,
but there was Bat Out Of Hell 2,
and that was my generation,
and Bat Out Of Hell 3 just came out."

the conversation with him ends,
& I end up talking with a person
who looks to be a bum,
and can't distinctly remember
what was said,
but that he'd known Meatloaf,
and he has oozing sores on his face,
one on his left cheek
which is dripping very much more
than the others (about three),
and there is some attempt
at exchanging information,
but the man jets
for the parking lot, and
in attempting to catch up with
him,
two things happen.

One,
I realize he must've been lying.
Two,
A car is parked against a
curb, & seems to be stuck there.
So Tobi comes with his white car or truck,
to dislodge them
by ramming their back bumper.

He is successful,
and the two kids driving,
one apparently slightly retarded,
are very thankful.
The retarded one says to Tobi:
"That's so great
because my brother was
so upset." or something to the effect

Then am in a classroom &
Steven Estlinger is there,
and there was a foggy & vague
transition to this class.
The teacher looks frightening at first
and I tell Estlinger
I'd never been so horrified of
a teacher,
and the teacher tells the
beginning of a joke to
the class, and
the other students shout out it's ending
in unison,
and I am relieved that this teacher is
actually quite friendly.

The retarded kid comes up to
the chalkboard to perform
a song & dance,
& I realize then that all children's show performers,
i.e. Barney or Sesame street performers
are all actually mentally retarded people,
and hence their voices.
This retarded child is a very
flamboyant performer,
writing words on the board as
he sings and dances,
and erasing them with a standard
chalkboard eraser, which
eventually collects too much chalk
and the boy is asked to stop
at this point, because
he is causing a huge chalky mess
all over his clothes and
the classroom.
the teacher takes the eraser
away from
the boy & tries to beat it
clean in the class.
The students yell at him to
do it outside.
He takes their advice & beats it
outside & we can see him.
the walls are all glass, and
it is sunny outside, and a lush
green land that stretched out for
miles, like a cornfield
turned into a lawn.
he comes back in explaining
to me that the eraser is
broken. So he wants me to fix it.
The retarded boy is still performing,
& I get frustrated
because as I examine the eraser
I notice first that two of the
tufts have come undone
and in trying to place them
back in
the anatomy of the eraser
starts changing
and as it does,
it becomes unfixable.
The inside of it is hollow now,
with soft foam tufts instead
of the standard type which
erasers are normally made of.
The middle tufts have all broken off
and ended up inside,
and in explaining this to the classroom,
I've begun to embarrass the
handicapped performer,
and end with saying something like:
"Can't you just buy a new eraser?"
"I think you'll just have to buy a new eraser."

written freehand in a composition notebook:

was riding around on my bike
in some peaceful purgatory
where the roads & streets
sped off around the residential
units.
found myself riding a road-cycle
and had a difficult time pedaling
because I was carrying a
satchel or purse
and it had rid its way down
to my left ankle.
Attempting a drag off a smoke
while at high speed
lost control of the bike and
teetered off toward a lightly wooded
residential property.
Instead of finding a road, path or
town street to have
turned off onto
had somehow managed through a
window or wall of a home,
(without causing damage of property)
upturning my bike against a couch.

In such a position
I had no choice
but to call out for help.
So I did this:
"hello!" several times,
and as if he had been
in an adjacent room
and seemingly prepared for such events,
a man with a knit cotton vest
colored dark grey w/ light blue hues
and dark grey khaki pants
slowly turned in
from the entrance of
the room
with his black & white mastiff
ahead of him.
the dog towered over me
and I eventually came to,
and the old man (very understanding)
helped me out of the house,
and the entire time
I am
telling him jokingly
of all the confusion & frustration
I was feeling
about having
ended up in his home
so mysteriously.
As if through an open window,
came in like a delicate wind,
without damaging a thing.
That I had been giving directions
to Malino
ahead of me in a van somehow,
on how to get from
a four corner intersection
to Route 161 to Melissa's
and ended up gaining speed,
as I went,
& ended up in this predicament.

Also felt a strong obligation
to explain that I was not a thief,
and the joking manner
in which I explained this
to the old man
may very well have been unnecessary;
the old man seeming to
understand my dilemma entirely.

Though,
the entire time,
something about the
appearence of his home.
A slender brick building,
like a tiny tower,
and one just across it
with a circular sidewalk
and branching walk-way to each:


it all looked familiar to me
like I had seen it in a dream
and felt almost as if
I had
mysteriously repeated
the same event twice.
almost immediately upon
seeing the old man & his dog,
had recognized them.
Was even concerned a bit,
as though the thought of
the man being troubled twice
had led me to believe
he would be more impatient
on this particular occasion.

He helped me outside to the
yard though,
and soon had me safely on my way,
but I had lost my convoy.

excerpt from "Names, Words & Fraises": Landon excerpt

Landon and I, when we were mid-schoolers,

would hang out in his mother's house, playing video games,

watching movies, drawing pictures & writing stories.

Obsessed with Beavis & Butthead, we would imitate them,

and began admiring chaotic behavior and culture.

Also, his grandparents lived next door,

and cooked pierogi, but called them "Poodaha",

and cooked stuffed cabbage, but called it "Glumpkee".

She also made hot dogs & beans or "franks & beans",

and Landon was accustomed to putting sweet-pickle in it.

His Grandmother would come over with extensive trays

of wonderful foods, all simple,

and sweet-pickle consisted of yellowed pickle cauliflower,

sweet-pickle cucumber slices, cocktail onions,

and a squirt-bottle of mustard along with it.

We laughed about the names of these foods,

and laughed uncontrollably.

I'd picked up a jar of pickles in one of his mother's cupboards,

and read aloud, "Sweet Gherkins"! and we fell backwards,

laughing.

We laughed at Tapioca Pudding,

and canned peaches we put in them,

and we laughed about everything, and anything,

we smashed apples from his grandmother's tree,

against a big fat boulder in her backyard.

We laughed at that too.

Now we're older.

We have jobs.

I'm married now, and have a child coming.

Though I remember the giant nostalgia behind all that was funny

in those days,

pickles don't make me laugh anymore,

nor pudding, nor franks & beans.

Names of things still make me laugh sometimes,

and even an occasional dumb joke,

but I have not experienced laughter like I had back then.

And that house was left behind almost a decade ago,

Landon & I finished High School, and spent four years in the Navy,

and his Grandfather died, and his Grandmother off to a nursing home with

a weak heart,

and some time later I moved to the other side of the country,

and he stayed behind.

But its funny,

how the memories of feelings still linger,

even after the nerve endings that held to them

seem to have dried, and crumbled, and blown away.

Funny, how food can just...

stick to your soul like that.

The Astrologist

The local paper has an Astrologist &

I read from her column everyday, mostly. One day however,

for reasons unsaid,

she'd left her entire column blank.

All the Zodiac symbols were there,

her picture,

and one could only assume

that she must have given up on the whole thing,

and she must be very happy now, and free.

She's out on some

Rhode Island beach,

it's early afternoon,

there is a great New England ceiling of clouds,

each of them like a bunny-tail.

People walk along the waterside barefoot,

their hands clasped to one another's,

and the people are tendrils, or whisps of vapor.

She stands on the top of a weedy dune,

breathing the air, which provides her with overwhelming nourishment,

each relaxed gulp of air which meets with her inner lung

is a swallow of mint.

She closes her eyes from time to time,

and ponders how great her life has become,

ever since the day she discontinued her column.

and it was then that I realized,

when you've grown to develop faith & trust for an Astrologist,

it is hard to let them go.

Three Lessons I learned both in and Around the Stupa:

the Stupa is filled with thousands of
mini-stupas, located in the roof, or point.
Above, an acid-washed stone, with real gold coat.
The eyes of the Buddha peering out, through the
lower portion of the tower, above the door
I believe. Outside, on it's skin, dragon-eggs or
wish fulfilling gems, jewels.
Also, a nest of wasps, Gone now, I'm sure.
Inside, Chadrupa, Milirepa Dorje,
Mahakala, big bronze incredible Buddha.
I'd helped at one point in lifting it, and
got a slight pinch of the finger, after they all (some of them monks or nuns & some
of them lays, like me) set him down, & I
overreacted, almost subconsciously waving my finger in pain. Lama Norlha (unexpected by
me) popped out around the Buddha &
asked how things were going, and
I tried to stop faking,
but felt as though I'd been unaware that I "had" been,
until Lama-la came by.
And I was embarrassed, though no one else
really noticed it'd taken place.
Also stopped into the Stupa while the
pretty Korean Ani was painting on or around the
Buddha, and she asked me "Are you in school now?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Don't get distracted," she gave back. I could only nod
reassuringly, though I knew she could
see distraction in me. I'd always liked her.
Then there was a woman with her teacher, a wise old
respected Lama, skinny & frail it seemed he was.
Doing fire Puja, and the lady taking shaped clay with burning
incense on, and walking out the Stupa, and
back in empty handed. There were cushions around the
Lama, placed there for observers to sit on,
but I was afraid to approach him during his
practise. He stopped during an opportune time
between procedures, and pointed to the cushions,
smiling.
so I got up and sat there with them. He pulled out
a piece of
Asian candy & gave it to me, and
meaning to be humorous, and kind
said to me: "You are ignorant."
The lady with him felt uncomfortable at once.
She didn't know that I was former Navy sailor,
and used to horrible insults, and
could handle even the worst of them. That I had been
chubby awkward school-boy, picked on, Attention Deficit Disorder,
never had my homework done,
never on time to work,
always poked & poked at,
She didn't know that I was calloused in this way.
Her face showed unease & surprise & shock,
but when she looked to me
expecting a sign that I'd been offended,
she only confirmed for me what had taken place.
I saw the wise Lama smiling, and I smiled,
and laughed briefly too, full-heartedly.
I was very fortunate to receive that blessing,
and to have made it that far,
and will never forget these three lessons.

Written free hand on stolen printer paper:

A boy walked the way to a gal's ballet house,

and knowing the old grouchy woman who taught there ( a sadist)

watched through a high window of the

red bricked building,

made an offer or gesture of sorts among the gathering

of gals to prove a point, or perhaps settle a bet.

He held his sweat in his skin as best he could,

waiting for one among the group (all gathered outside next to an apple tree)

to prove a selected ballerina to be either

kind or cruel.

The boy, black short school-boy hair & a

Sunday suit as though this were the old times

and when he wins the bet

he looks upward for verification from the sadistic old

ballet teacher, & when she withdraws from the

window in defeat,

the boy lets his sweat go & it soaks him.

also a great hurricane comes, or a tornado,

because later on, the town is destroyed,

and a small group

of misfits roams the littered streets, searching

for safety? for shelter?

There is a pregnant girl, engaged,

her fiance is back from Iraq & with her,

and they are dressed either to get married, or have just

been married. It is night.

A bulldozer in the distance, among

wreckage and streetlights,

stands as the rusted & faint reminder

of the world before the storm came.

The Message Maker

Spent all day,
after snapping up awake and writing it down,
what I meant by the message maker, and assumed
it must surely have something to
do with the strange searches
I've done, on the Internet,
that turn up strange numbers &
series of letters that look like codes,
and how there must be some secret
society of men who all
read the works of the message maker. The man who knows all.
The man who sees how all things'll turn out, and
he sits at a Starbucks all day
on a lap-top computer typing
his cryptic revelations for these intelligent few.
& he tells them where the best gas prices are,
and where the cheapest places on Earth are to buy
wheat or own land for harvesting grain.
Perhaps he's aware of terrorists & the location of
Osama Bin Laden.
It's not hard to find his writings,
all you do is type in crazy
titles on the search engine, or maybe you
find a National Geographic magazine and
type the numbers at the page binding
where it is hard to see with the naked eye.
only the intelligent few would know which
pages to remove.
I'll bet there're years & years of
his messages still undiscovered,
in dusty boxes of old National Geographic magazines,
off an exit up I-95 North in Connecticut,
near Danbury or somewhere.
An old roommate of mine told me they were all for sale, and
we swore to each other once we got the chance
to do it, we'd make a road trip,
just to pick'em up.
But I'm married now and all
the way crossed the country, and don't have
the time or money now to go do that,
but, I'm still in touch with him. Aught'to call him.
So they'll sit there undiscovered,
unresearched. Collecting dust like records in an old
moldy antique store,
and the message maker is probably really old by now.
started on an old type writer,
long before the Internet was around.
writing letters to National Geographic &
Sending'em in large
Manila envelopes, labeled
Government Property/Top Secret.