Love at the Rock Show

                Seth kicked at the railroad gravel sending small rocks flying and skipping over the steel rails and down over the side of the berm.  The gravel echoed across the railroad tracks in the quiet of one a.m. He winced at his split lip and he remembered getting elbowed in the face.  He exhaled, trying to clear his head.  He tightened the knot from his flannel shirt sleeves around his waist and focused on walking. It was a long walk home even with the railroad track shortcut.

                The concert was supposed to be the time Seth was going to make her love him. She’d be up there, on the stage singing in her normal frantic but amazingly sexual style, when she’d spot him in the crowd and fall madly in love with him.  It was ordained. It was supposed to happen. Seth just knew it was going to happen that way. He’d dreamed about it so many times. He’d imagined it so perfectly. He even knew what they were going to say to each other.

                Carrie Lee would stop the show right in the middle of her signature song, Love is a Knife, and ask for the concert venue to put a spotlight on Seth. She’d recognize him from his letters to her and she’d know that it was his 18^th birthday. She’d insist a spotlight be put on Seth. The light would come on, blinding Seth for a moment. Carrie Lee would say his name and he’d be lifted up on the shoulders of all the other concert goers and body surf his way to the front of the stage. The burly bouncers would help him up onto the stage where he would be face to face with Carrie Lee.

                “I knew you’d be here,” Carrie Lee would say.

                “I knew you’d know that,” Seth would say.

                “I got your letters,” Carrie Lee would say, “They’ve meant so much to me.”

                “I know. I’ll always be there for you,” Seth would say.

                “Happy Birthday Seth,” She would say.

                She’d take his hand and pull him in close. She’d look into his eyes and then close them slowly as Seth moved forward to kiss her. Their lip rings would touch forever solidifying their universal connection.  The band would start back up and Carrie Lee would hold Seth’s hand for the rest of the show. She’d kiss him at the musical breaks and in between songs. She might even cut the show short so she could get him back to her hotel room for all the awesome sex they were likely to have for the rest of their lives.  It was so perfect.

                Seth looked behind him along the train tracks to make sure a train wasn’t coming. Not that it would matter now, he thought. Nothing had worked out like he’d expected. His Dad dropped him off two blocks from the concert venue, which was cool, but his dad just didn’t get it. Carrie Lee’s music was raw and intense and there was no way his Dad could understand it. He never had music like that or felt that way about someone.  But it was still cool that he was letting him go to the concert by himself and didn’t drop him off right in front of the doors. 

                Seth gave the guy at the door his ticket, went through the metal detector and into the intimate concert space. It was packed with all sorts of punks and rockers and weirdoes that Carrie Lee’s music inspired. It was Seth’s first concert so he really wasn’t sure where to go. He followed a small group of guys that were sort of dressed the same as he was. A flannel shirt tied around their waists, messy hair, old board shorts and skater tennis shoes. He figured he’d just hang back with them until the show started and then he’d let destiny unfold.

                Things started getting awkward really fast. He found himself caught up in the rush of people moving toward the front of the stage. There were just so many more people at the concert than Seth expected. He thought this was an intimate show not a hootenanny for a bunch of yahoos. He was pushed and shoved and practically mauled in the crush of Carrie Lee Fans as they forced their way closer to the stage and the metal barrier surrounding it.  He tried to push back since he wasn’t standing in the spot he imagined in the crowd.  He was too close to the right side of the stage when he imagined he’d be closer to the center. He tried to push his way in that direction but the lights went down and the intro music started.

                The crowd started cheering and it was deafening. Seth jumped when the speakers blasted out the bass line to Carrie Lee’s song, Finger This. He’d never felt a bass line pass through his body before. He felt his heart rattle in his ribcage. He looked up toward the stage and saw Carrie Lee skip out with microphone in hand. She was dressed like a Japanese Anime Maid; it was not how Seth had imagined her. She thanked everyone for coming to her show and the band started in earnest as Carrie Lee started hopping and gyrating across the small stage. Seth felt the crowd swell and he felt crushed. He looked up toward Carrie Lee with pleading notice me eyes. He begged God for her to notice him; to see him and know that the man of her dreams was in the crowd and ask them to give him space.

                She kept singing and Seth could hardly tell what the song was. It sounded like something he’d never heard before but people in the crow were singing along. It was something from her first album, an album Seth didn’t even know about. He tried to make a space for himself in the singing crowd but he couldn’t get any room. He felt like he was going to lose it. He was sweating and felt lost in the noise and confusion. He turned away from the stage, still hoping that maybe Carrie Lee would see that he wasn’t facing the stage, the odd one in the pack, but she didn’t. Seth started pushing his way toward the back when an elbow came from out of nowhere and caught Seth in the jaw. He’d wandered into a small mosh pit and got hit right in the face.  He fell backwards and into the crowd who pushed him back into the little mosh pit where he bashed his head into another person’s head. He fell to his butt into a puddle of beer. No one helped him up. They danced around him as he tried to crawl to the sides to get away from them.

                Seth spent the rest of the show, nursing his bleeding lip and rubbing the top of his head where he’d connected so hard with some other dude. Carrie Lee never looked his way. She never asked if he was there. No matter how hard Seth pleaded to God to let her see him there in the back she just kept right on singing, dancing and flirting her way out of his heart. Seth was embarrassed and hurt but wouldn’t let it show. He sort of sang along and tried to look cool along the back wall along with the old people.   He stayed for the entire show. He stayed for the encore. He stayed so long that the bouncers had to sweep him out along with the drunks and high kids.  He never saw Carrie Lee other than on the stage. She didn’t greet her fans. She got on a bus and was gone.

                Seth called his dad. Said he’d had a great time, but he was going to take an Uber home. His Dad said it was no trouble to come and pick him up.  Seth didn’t want his dad to see him so upset or that he had a busted lip. So he said he’d just Uber it.  His dad said that was cool and he’d wait up for him.  Seth tried to keep it together and said thanks. He started walking toward his neighborhood. He walked through neighborhoods he’d only been driven through, saw the late night spots older people talked about but he was too young to know about.  He just kept walking till he got to the train tracks and his direction home.  He could find some peace on the train tracks and clear his mind. It was a place where he could try and figure out the hard lesson he’d learned. 

Snickering to Sleep

It was with a sharp snicker

that I remembered some

of my clumsier romantic

moments.

Those times I tried to be

the dashing movie star but

only succeeded in being the

bumbling best friend.

I cringed at my memories

of awkward kisses, uncomfortable

hand holding, feet sweeping and

poorly timed passions.

I am not suave. I lack the guile

of the classic beau of cinema.

I get nervous and sweat rather than

confidently swoop in for the kiss.

I chuckle at my embarrassments,

and wonder how it is I got as far as

I have in situations where my awkwardness

wasn’t a detriment, but a charming plus.

Maybe twice. Three times max. When

my fumbling was cute, adorable, and even

a little sexy. God bless the women that thought

so. I appreciate their charity.

I’m a rumpled and wrinkled shirt in a

see of finely pressed cottons, trying

to iron with my hands and smile sweetly,

as I am judged by lips I’ll never kiss.

I shook my head as these thoughts

played with my sleepless mind, in a lonely

Sunday bed. I’m just fine. She’ll like my

awkwardness, because that’s me.

And maybe she’ll be an awkward kisser too,

and maybe we’ll have awkward kids who’ll

go on to have awkward loves of

their own.

She’ll like me. And I’ll like her.

I took some comfort in the thought,

my wry smile fading from my face,

as I finally settled into sleep.

Popcorn Dave and the Butter Girls

Popcorn Dave and the Butter Girls

put on their best show ever.

There were kick lines and fireworks,

flaming hoops jumped through.

Aerobatics and aerobics,

throwing knives and juggling.

Popcorn Dave was in his best

red and white striped suit.

The Butter Girls were flashy in

their skimpy gold lame.

The children oooh-ed,

their parents aahhed.

The tent was alive with action

and death defying thrills.

There were songs, jokes, stories,

bittersweet vignettes and applause.

Popcorn Dave and the Butter Girls

Amazing Extravaganza of Daring-Do!

It was the talk of the town, they were in

the paper, they were in the Church bulletin.

 The last act, Popcorn Dave’s leap from

a flaming tower into a small pool, ringed with fire.

He tipped his red and white stove pipe hat to

the Calliope player and winked at the Butter Girls.

The drums fell silent, the crowd held their breath,

Popcorn Dave, in his signature act, jumped off the tower.

Through the air he spun, tumbled and rolled,

he crouched and twisted in fabulous ways.

The air was thick with terrific anticipation,

a Butter Girl looked away, the lovely Delilah.

The pool was in focus, Popcorn Dave straightened

out, perfect form, perfect shape, a bullet of skill.

Barely a splash as Popcorn Dave hit the pool,

he rose from the water with a sparkler clamped in his teeth.

The tent went wild, the ground shook with cheers,

the Butter Girls danced, Popcorn Dave took his bows.

The finale overture played as the players, jugglers,

The Flying Zimpani’s and Bogo the Bumbler bowed.

The audience, so in love for the moment, began to

trickle out and silence crept in to the once loud tent.

Popcorn Dave now in his red and white striped robe,

stood near Delilah, whom he always loved.

“This is my last show my dear,” said Popcorn Dave.

“I know my sweet,” said Delilah, “I know.”

She kissed his graying head and squeezed his old hand,

he smiled as a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek.

The bright lights in the tent went out.  

Auld Lang Syne

A year, like any other, but unlike

so many before.

This one came in, stumbled at

the threshold, spilled its wine on

the white carpet and didn’t

apologize. It was lost from there.

Like a lot of drunks, 2016 didn’t

intend to do it. It was just an accident.

A mistake. It started off with the highest

ideals only to fall into a house of ill repute,

with cocaine crusted around his bloodied nostrils.

It just happened.

So what if 2016 was a serial killer bent

on eliminating the worlds beloved

celebrities, musicians and idealists,

it also took care of a lot of bad people

no one will mourn. Who will remember

2016 did that? “Nobody,” snorts 2016.

2016 wanted to go to the classy bar,

the one downtown, where the tablecloths

are white, the drinks are fancy and the people

are beautiful. But the bouncers wouldn’t let

2016 in. They’d had quite enough of 2015’s

shenanigans and knew better.

2016 didn’t take it well, it went

on a bender of epic proportions. Drinking

and drugging its way from home to home,

heart to heart, and funeral parlor to funeral

parlor.  Shushing people like Dudley Moore

in Arthur and tripping over imagined bumps.

The world just watched as 2016 bumped into

furniture, street lamps, movie stars, gorillas,

politicians, cops, robbers, the guilty, and the

innocent alike. The world just did what enablers

do; they looked the other way and hoped 2016

would just figure it out on its own.  

So here we sit, 2016 and me, at the

end of a dusty bar, dust motes drifting

through the morning sunlight, swirling

around our breakfast beers, the jukebox

is stuck on “American Pie” by Don McLean,

and 2016 doesn’t feel well.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said 2016.

“You probably should,” I said.

“I mean, what happened? Where did it go

so wrong? Was it me? Was it them,” asked 2016.

“I really don’t know. I was too busy watching you

moon astronauts and eliminate critical thinking,” I said.

“Right, right, that was pretty funny,” said 2016.

2016 got up from its leathery stool and stretched.

“Maybe I’ll just go to the crapper,” said 2016.

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I said.

“Tell 2017 not to take my seat,” said 2016 as it stumbled

toward the restroom.

“Sure. I’ll do that,” I mumbled.

I looked down toward the opposite end of the bar,

a young 2017 was playing with a thin drink straw in

a fancy cocktail, with fruit and a little parasol.

2017 was eyeing us with lust.  

“Not yet baby,” I said, “Not yet.”

2017 pouted and turned away.

I heard a flush from the restroom and 2016

walked back into the bar room

with its pants around its ankles.

“One more round barkeep,” 2016 shouted.

The bartender frowned but got the drinks.

“I broke your toilet too, by the way,” said 2016.

The Adventures of Christmas Man

“What’s that? Up in the sky?”

“Is it a man? Is it a giant bird?”

“Is it glowing? Is it all lit up?’

“Is it wearing underwear over

its clothes?”

The crowd mumbled and

shuffled in the cold December

night as they gazed skyward at

the curious red object streaking

through the winter air.

“Is that…? Christmas Man?!”

“It is! It’s Christmas Man!”

“Hooray, here to save us all!”

“He’ll save us, I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, lucky day!”

Christmas Man defender of

cheer and goodwill toward man,

a man of Yule and merry tidings,

a superhero born to bring hope,

and a Union chimney sweeper.

“I hope he can help me carry my

heavy shopping bags to my car!”

“I hope he salts this slippery sidewalk!”

“I hope he keeps my crazy Uncle quiet

during Christmas dinner!”

Christmas Man waved to the crowds

as he zoomed overhead. He had a mission

this night. A mission of mercy for the

needy. A mission to save Christmas from

sadness.

“Hey! Christmas Man! Where are you

going!?”

“Yeah, hey buddy, what the heck!”

“Salt this slippery sidewalk!”

“Where’s he going? What a Jerk!”

Christmas Man flew over the city,

he flew over the country, his red cape

trimmed in white fur, flapping behind

him in his speedy flight. He waved when he

could to the people below.

“Up yours Christmas Man!”

“Get bent Christmas Man!”

“Salt this sidewalk!”

“Get lost Christmas Man!”

“You’re a flash in the pan!”

Christmas Man had no time

for their jibes. Yet he did wipe

a small tear from the corner of

his eye. It might have been from

the cold wind in his face.

“Christmas Man, what a joke.”

“He only comes one time a year.”

“I fell on this slippery sidewalk!”

“I’ve never actually met him.”

“Yeah, he’s never done anything for me.”

The crowds on the city streets dispersed,

the country folks went back inside the

businesses on Main Street. They griped

and grumbled and fixed their collars against

the cold.

Christmas Man arrived at a small

village where a water borne

sickness had ravaged the villagers.

He offered to set up a Christmas tree,

with lights and bells.

“No thank you Christmas Man,” said the Doctor,

“but maybe you can hold that child there and

provide her some comfort in her last minutes.”

Christmas Man looked at the small girl, weak from

sickness, taking slow sluggish breaths.

“How about I sing a little Oh, Little Town

of Bethlehem,” asked Christmas Man.

“Um, sure Christmas Man, just stay out

of the way,” said the exhausted Doctor.

“Great! I’m sure that’ll help,” said Christmas Man.

The Doctor rolled his eyes as Christmas Man

began to sing. The child turned away.

The doctor moved on to the next sick child as

Christmas Man sang with his eyes closed, willing

the Spirit of good tidings to manifest.

“What is that madman doing?”

“I think he’s singing.”

“Why doesn’t he help clean the water?”

“I don’t think that’s what he does.”

“Who does then?”

Christmas Man finished his song.

A few villagers still able to move applauded

politely. Christmas Man gave them a quick

salute and turned to the center of the village,

“Merry Christmas to All,” he said with a wave.

Christmas Man shot up into the sky leaving

a trail of Christmas lights and the smell of

hot Gingerbread in his wake.

“Son of a biscuit,” said the Doctor.

“Is it really Christmas,” asked a sick villager.

“It is. It really is, somewhere” said the Doctor.

Somewhere there were sleigh bells jingling,

and church bells were ringing, and a distant

chorus sang carols on the night breeze.

“It is Christmas,” said the Doctor.  

My Bit of Mourning

The hardest thing to write about

is death.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I can write about death all day.

Until it becomes personal.

Then, I really don’t know what to

say about it at all.

Sure, I can write a story about

the Grim Reaper coming into

someone’s bedroom late in the night,

waking up the soon to be departed,

having a chat about their life,

smoking a cigarette, and whisking the

soul to heaven.

No problem. Story practically writes

itself. But it’s tougher when it’s personal.

It’s not some mythological creature of

legend shrouded in a ragged black hood reaching

out with a bony hand. It’s certainly not as

dramatic as all that. 

There’s no special effects.

When someone dies.

It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sad.

It’s cruel. It’s inevitable.

Albeit, sometimes too soon; enhancing the cruelty.

It’s random, yet so targeted.  And leaves so

many in its melancholy wake to wonder, to mourn,

to grieve, and cry.  And I still don’t know what to say.

I’ve been going to funerals

since before I could walk. Death has been

constant in my life and it is nothing new.

In fact, it’s sort of old hat. Occurring with

such regularity that I’m almost bored with

it, or maybe, tired of it.  Yes, I’m tired of

death. 

I’ll get out the black suit. I’ll say my prayers.

I’ll kneel, sit, eulogize, and wish to God

that I could just go home and get

back to normal. I’m tired of the

bully that death can be.  I’m tired

of the saint death can be.

I’m tired of trying to figure it out.

I’ll pay my respects for the living,

the survivors of death, the family,

the friends. I’ll say that I’m sorry.

I’ll say that it’ll be okay, in time.

And it’ll be true.

Yet tinged with the mechanical motions

of a seasoned professional mourner.

With nothing original to say.

Death not only robs us of a loved one

but it robs us of the right words to say,

to write, to sing, the chance for new memories

before the old ones fade away.

That’s why it’s so hard to write about.

That’s why I’m not sure what this is about.

Hungry

A growling and grumbling

in my gut is telling me

something I think I thought

I already knew.

I’m hungry.

It’s more than simple hunger, starvation

or emaciation. Food in my

1^st world life is fairly simple to obtain.

Go to the store. Go to the restaurant.

Microwave a burrito.

The grumbling and growling

is much more than a need for food.

It’s a hunger for something more

sustaining. Something more filling.

Something…

I’m hungry for being wanted.

I’m starving for being lusted after.

I’m un-sated for love.

I’m craving an unspoken trust between

minds, hearts and smiles.

The buffet seems to be closed though,

my deli ticket number never gets called,

they’re out of the meat I like,

they’re not serving breakfast after 10:00 am,

they put pineapple in the potato salad.

I’m unaware of how to satisfy this hunger,

I’m not sure where to go to get a good meal,

I don’t have the right cooking utensils,

I won’t go to a Farmers’ Market,

I haven’t the slightest where you got yours.

A grumble and a groan,

from deep inside.