I Won't Ever be The Same.

           Tonight on the ride home, I followed a big Dodge Ram dually diesel pick-up.  It was lifted and had two big smoke stacks rising up from behind the cab.  This truck screamed redneck at full volume.  The only thing missing was the fake nut-sack dangling from the trailer hitch. 

            It was around Lodge Farm Road
that he spotted my running lights and started playing.  It should be noted that I drive a Ford F350 diesel pick-up.  Sure it’s big (four doors) and has a leveler on the frontend so it looks lifted; but my truck is understated and almost classy, if that is possible?  It skirts the redneck line only because of its size and noise.  Most times, the boy’s running stacks will nod as we pass, but I know that in the back of their minds they’re thinking to themselves, “Pussy, big truck, mostly stock; that boy needs to stretch his legs a little.”  It’s a queer bunch that drives big diesel trucks.  It’s an unspoken club.  I am a member, but don’t attend the meetings and have never grasped the intricacies of the secret handshake.

            So Trucky-boy in front of me starts speeding up and slowing down as we get closer to the straight-away that runs through Todds Farm.  It is here where these good old boys wind it up and let it out in impromptu drag races; diesel vs. diesel on a mile long stretch of straight road that dumps you into Fort Howard, my home.

            And Trucky-boy is really pushing my buttons.  I’m coming off of a twenty hour day in Philly.  I’m beat.  The crane operator crushed my hand twice; and the second hit broke one finger and fractured another.  Everything that could go wrong with a sky-job did, and we still managed to complete our task and limp home back to Baltimore, broken but intact; and comforted by the realization that we might have made a difference in a world that seems so determined to prove us wrong.  I have a twenty-four ounce cup of cold black coffee in the center console, and there’s only grounds and mud left in the bottom of the crappy cup; and I’ve rationed these out and have been munching on the remains for the last fifty miles.  I am beaten and delirious, and now some asshole wants me to drag race the last mile home?

            Fuck him.  Seriously, fuck him.  Right about now I want to slam on the brakes and let the fucker ride up my rear end.   But he’s looking for a race and swerves out into the left hand lane.  We’re running side by side now, at a cool fifty.  The window of the Dodge rolls down and this is what I am greeted by…

            “Com’on muther-fucker, let’s see whatcha got!”

            It was that simple, the race was about to begin.  I said nothing.  I just looked over at the fat fuck in the passenger side and sneered.  Fuck you, asshole, I just tempted fate for the last twenty hours.  Your little test of manhood is piss in a bucket.

            So we dance.  Punch it, pull back, punch it; until we hit the main straightaway.

            And then I see her.

            Fuck me.

            There’s a rabbit sitting in the road just six clicks ahead.

            “Come on sweetness, get a move on.  You can hear and feel us coming.  It is two freight trains coming your way.  Get off of the center line and go.”

            But she doesn’t.  She just straddles the line.

            I mash my brakes and start to drift.

            The asshole with something to prove just hammers down and winds it out.

            And he clips her.

            It is so silly and unwarranted.

            He never slows down.

            It’s like he never saw her.

            I watch her careen across the tarmac.

            She tumbles

            And rolls,

            Like a projectile

            Fired from a cannon,

            That looses speed over distance,

            And gives in to inertias unpredictability.

            It’s like watching a wet rag,

            In a mini tornado.

            Fuck me.

            I’m now grinding to a sideway’s halt.

            I can feel the suspension and frame of my truck twisting and bending under the strain of a controlled and sudden stop.  Behind me there is a black patch of rubber that looks like a licorice stick in the hands of an infant.

            And I stop.

            Just like that.

            Aching metal finds peace.

            I look in the rear view mirror.

            And in the twilight and mix of the amber glow of my brake lights,

            I see her stir.

            She is broken,

            There is no doubt,

            Broken beyond repair,

            Of this I am certain.

            But I just can’t leave her there.

            Nothing should go out,

            And away,

            So suddenly

            If someone was there to notice.

            So I pull into the hay field before Avenue C, and park.  I grab the flashlight and start walking back to where she laid. 

            When I get there she is still moving.

            Her tiny body is still trying to run away from the chaos that crushed it.

            Timing is everything, and her timing was way off.

            I kneel down and touch her side.

            I can feel everything broken inside her.

            It is like running your hand along a thin velvet balloon filled with broken glass.

            I slide my hands beneath her and cradle carry her to the side of the road.

            In my hands, I imagine I am carrying the Hope Diamond shattered into manageable pieces.  “If I can hold it all together, maybe I can salvage its worth?”  In my heart I know, that I am carrying a 1000 piece Springbock puzzle that is about to unravel and fall apart at great speed; and I will never be able to put it back to right, put it back together again.

            There is a wooded glen just off the road.

            I carry her there.

            I hike in just enough, so that passing cars and people won’t know we are there.

            I sit down upon the bed of leaves, and look upon the life in my hands.

            It is fading.

            It is fading fast,

            I can feel the heart beats,

            Speeding up, and slowing down;

            In an uneasy cadence.

            And then she was gone.

            Just like that.

            It is amazing to hold life in your hands,

            No matter how small and frail;

            And then to feel it just quietly disappear.

           

            But it never goes quietly,

            If you really care and believe.

            If you are connected,

            The loss,

            Of even the tiniest of things

            Is like the echo of great thunder in your heart.

            And if you happen to really care,

            There is a flash of light

            That blinds your soul.

            So I sat in the woods,

            Just off of Avenue C,

            Blinded and deaf.

            A twisted and broken rabbit

            In my hands.

            When I gathered my senses,

            I went back to my truck,

            Grabbed a shovel,

            And began to dig.

            A hole, just off Avenue C,

            In the woods, far enough,

            Where small simple things could find peace.

            And I dug.

            And I kept digging.

            Until I realized,

            That I hadn’t just dug a hole for a small, broken rabbit;

            I had dug a hole big enough for me.

           

            So I laid her down;

            This small, frail, broken creature.

            And I filled the empty space around her

            With night flowers and green

            That I gathered from the woods.

           

            And then I rolled the earth back over.

            And just like that it was done.

            And I sat in the cloak,

            Of the woods,

            Just off of Avenue C,

            Sobbing at first,

            Then keening,

            And then just sleep.

            The morning sun awoke me

            Where I was.

            I was different.

           

            And I won’t ever be the same.

"Gravity's gone, and I'm just floating."

And I quote the Drive By Truckers (look em up), "I've been falling so long it's like gravity is gone, and I'm just floating."

And I am just floating.
I float out of bed.
I float though work.
I float through my ride home,
and then float through dinner;
and promptly float into bed.
Lather, rinse, and repeat.

Most days,
these days,
it all just melts together
into a delicious grilled cheese
of boredom, lonliness, and bone breaking ache.
Imagine getting lost walking from your kitchen to your bathroom?
Now imagine the space between these two rooms,
is as big as a baby pool?
Even a child can navigate
this blue plastic and shallow wonderland.
And yet I somehow find myself
lost and drowning between the brittle curved edges.
My guess is I could somehow
find a way to drown right now,
in a five gallon bucket full
of piss and vinegar.

But I wouldn't drown.
I'd just float;
Right back to the top.

Everything has changed
around me.
I have watched
the big oak out back,
go from green, to amber, to barren, and back to green.
I have sat beneath her
and watched the stars climb across the sky with predictable precision.
Some stars fell.
We prayed for them.
I have stood next to her
and waited for the fury of the gray storm veil,
that moved across the inlet towards us.
And as the gale overtook us,
before the rain really fell,
We watched as the lightning cracked
upon the onyx surface that divides liquid from air.
The big oak holds steady through the storm.
And I pray for her.
Because I have little else to pray for anymore.
I have little left to trust and believe in.
I am afloat;
And I am adrift.

Right after college,
when we all seemed to be drifting,
when we all seemed to be floating;
we stole my friends father's boat after a night of drinking.
He was allowed to take it out,
just not at night after the bars had closed,
and without permission.
We parked on the side road outside the marina,
climbed the fence,
snuck past the sleeping watchman,
and with quiet determination,
pushed the big boat away from the dock and into the river's current.
Once enough distance was between us
and the pier,
we fired the big engines up and headed out into the black.

My friend,
who was now in a world of shit,
for stealing his father's boat,
manned the helm and brought us to a spot on a river somewhere;
where we dropped anchor and settled in.
We were pirates,
if only for one drunk night.

Another pirate on our journey
issued a challenge.
Who would dare to swim under the boat
from port to starboard?
Who would dare to dive into the black?
So he and I did.
Even with eye's wide open,
there was nothing to see.
The only way to make it to the other side
was by feel;
A hand stretched out above you,
running along the slick bottom of the boat.
And it felt
like I would never reach the other side.
Breaking the plane of black water above,
was like a rebirth.

But this wasn't enough.
My friend, my fellow pirate,
challenged me to contest of wills and strength.
"How far do you think we can swim away from the boat?"
So back into the black water we went.
At first it was a contest of speed.
Then it became a contest of will.
Just how far are you willing to go?
The light off the bow keeps getting smaller.
Are you giving up yet?
The sounds of those left behind are gone.
All I can here is my body moving through the soft waves.
Am I giving up yet?

And then it happened...
I just laid back,
looked up to the stars,
and floated.
I let the current just take me.
I could make it back to the boat,
if I just rested,
floated.
I also knew
that just floating
on the current
could take me further away.
But as long as I floated,
and stayed awake,
I could find my way back to shore.
I could be miles from home
when I touched land again,
but I would never drown.

So I paused,
and stretched out,
upon the uneasy engine of the black water,
and watched the stars.

And when I had enough of floating,
I fought my way against the current,
back to the boat.

I am floating.
I know this.
And when I have enough of floating,
I will fight my way against the current
back into the land of the living.

But for now,
please let me be.
I need this.
I need to feel weightless and free.
I need the infinite heaven of stars above me;
and the black uncertainty embracing me,
and holding me up.

I am floating.
There are better ways to be.
But as long as you float,
you can't drown.
And the tide will always take you someplace,
that just might end up home.

Twenty Questions Going Nowhere.

    Recently, I was interviewed by an on-line publication about my work, the Hit and Miss Engine Papers.  A video conference was set up inside a generic looking office building.  The group "conferencing" before me were a professional looking bunch.  They carried "man satchels", and dressed smartly in nice suits sans ties.  They were business casual. Even the sole female in their group looked important.
    I was coming from work.  I wore my very dusty and dirty Carhartts and workboots.  If you are unfamiliar with Carhartts, they are basically Garanimals for men in construction related fields.  If you are unfarmilliar with Garanimals, then this witty observation will be lost on you.
    After the important group before me had moved and shaked enough, I was ushered into the large room, that resembled a grey, empty swimming pool.  It had all the character of a wet roll of toilet paper.  I felt silly for expecting more.  My mahogany and stainless steel dream conference room was reduced to a large, crudely built Formica and press board table.  Upon closer inspection, the word "dick" was carved into the rough plastic top, right where I sat down.  Before the interview had even begun, I felt as though someone had seen right thru me.
    So some fiddling about with technical things occurred, and then it began.  I was face, to computer screen face, with my interviewer.  She seemed pleasant enough to look at.  She had on expensive designer glasses and a cowl neck sweater.  This was all that I could make out.  I wondered what I must have looked like, to her.  She looked like a writer; and I imagine, I resembled a hobo.
    We exchanged some formalities, I set some ground rules, and we began.
    The following is a transcript (edited due to length) of our discourse.

Interviewer:  So (deleted) tell me about...
Murdoc:  Stop.  What did we just talk about?
Interviewer:  Oh, my bad.
Murdoc:  Did you just say "my bad"?
Interviewer:  Sorry.  Sorry on both accounts.
Murdoc:  Look, I'm not trying to bust your chops here, but let's not use my real name.  Agreed? I'm writing some very personal stuff and I want to keep me separate from my work.  Christ, I sound like a dick already!  You can't see this, but someone before me, carved the word "dick" right here (points to conference table) in front of me.
Interviewer:  (laughs)  That's rather ironic, don't you think? (adjusts glasses)
Murdoc:  Um yeah, thanks Alanis.
Interviewer:  (nervous laugh)  Okay, let's get back on track, Murdoc.  Tell me about the Hit and Miss Engine Papers?
Murdoc:  It is an experiment in word and images.
Interviewer:  Yes, it says so on every page and entry, but could you give me something more?
Murdoc:  Sure. (pause, he looks down and rubs a dirty finger across the word dick, carved into the table)  The work is basically an exploration of grief, and an early coming to terms with the solitude that awaits us all.  It's a personal journey into the broken human heart.  It is an unwanted, but necessary trip down shitty memory lane.  It's a binging and purging of emotions best kept hidden.  It's...It's therapy but without some asshole, a couch, and a bill after every session.  How's that?
Interviewer:  Nice.  So it's about lost love and your need to come to terms?
Murdoc:  Sure, if you put it into it's simplest terms.  It's funny, but I recently shared the HME Papers with a writer friend.  He jokingly, I hope he was joking, called it "break-up" poetry.  If this is how it is perceived by the reader, than I think I will be shutting it down.  It's not like I'm performing this shit with bongos at open mic night at the local coffee shop.  I hope to Christ no one confuses this with break-up poetry.  It's prose for shit's sake!  (pause)  But fuck, I can see where the lines could be blurred.
Interviewer:  If it was just break-up poetry, we wouldn't be talking.  There is something about your work that has touched a nerve with readers, women in particular.  Have you noticed this?  And why do you think that women are drawn to your piece?
Murdoc:  Women are drawn to my piece?  I haven't noticed this.  What about my piece intrigues you?  It's length or girth?
Interviewer:  (smiling coyly)  Alright, I chose the wrong words.  Thanks for making me look stupid.
Murdoc:  Sorry (smiling slyly), you chose your words perfectly, I just happen to be embracing my new moniker.  See, (points to table) it says so right here, I'm a dick.
Interviewer:  You don't seem like a dick; and dick's don't write such beautiful words.
Murdoc:  (pause and blush)  Thank you.  (pause)  Here's the thing... I think women come back to the HME Papers because it's a guy, a real guy, finally being honest.  And I think this is also why many men come back to it, and are scared off.  So, I guess, what it is, is just honest human thought and emotion being expressed in a relatable and palpable way?  You can lie to me all you want, but tell me honestly, you've never felt this way?  I'm just putting my balls on the table and handing you the hammer.
Interviewer:  I must admit, your work has made me cry a couple of times.
Murdoc:  Really?  Which ones?
Interviewer:  Mouthful of Bees and the Geometry of Grief and Coffee.
Murdoc:  Thank you.
Interviewer:  I said your work made me cry.  Is that a compliment?
Murdoc:  Absolutely.  Truth be told, I cried while writing those posts.  It's my intention to touch the reader.  I crave eliciting and forcing emotion on the reader.  I want and need to feel that my stupid words are touching a nerve, pressing a button, flipping a switch.  My subject matter is nothing new or different.  So yes, as you said earlier, it's about lost love and coming to terms, but it is also something more.  It is self-actualization and the epiphany of understanding.  I think this is something we can, and want, and desire, to relate to.  And as a bonus and prize, there are mopy images at the bottom of the box of my not so Honey-Combs.
Interviewer:  So from what I have gathered, most of the images are from your backyard and home?
Murdoc:  Yup.  I live in shack down by the river.  It's a nice shack, with a lovely view of the water, and the industrial plant across the inlet.  It's a weird place that time has forgot.  I'm twenty minutes from downtown Baltimore, but it might as well be twenty light years away.  There is no mail delivery.  You have to set up a P.O. box at the little post office around the corner form my house.  When I went in, the old ladies stopped chatting and just looked me over.  The Post Master, a lovely looking silver haired woman, said, "Can I help you?"  And I replied, "Yes, I need to set up a P.O. box," and she said "Why?"  And I replied, "Because I've just moved here."  And she replied, "Where?"  And then I told her where I was living and she said, "Oh, you're the new guy in Susan's old place.  Welcome to Fort Howard."  That's fucking weird and wonderful.  It's a very protective, waterfront community on a tiny peninsula.  It's Mayberry on the water.  And it is such a place that time has forgot, that it makes taking photographs easy.  I just worry that I'm going to be the guy that fucks it all up.  I think after this interview I'm going to go back and delete any reference to my quaint, adopted, redneck town.  I also think I'm going to get real drunk and regret doing this interview.
Interviewer:  I think you're doing fine.  It seems like you're starting to get comfortable and loosen up.
Murdoc:  That's because the Xanax I took while waiting in the lobby is starting to kick in.
Interviewer:  You are surprisingly funny.
Murdoc:  And your sweater has a really big collar.  You could carry groceries around your neck and no one would ever know.
Interviewer:  It's a cowl neck.
Murdoc:  A cow neck?
Interviewer:  Cowl, cowl, like towel.  It's a type of...(she stops and just smiles while giving Murdoc the finger)
Murdoc:  Sorry.  I'm a dick.  It says so right here (points again to etching in table).  So, how many of these video interview thingys do you do?
Interviewer:  Too many.  It would be so much nicer to actually talk to you writers face to face.  I mean, be honest, this is weird, right?
Murdoc:  Yupper.  I feel like at some point I am going to ask you for a credit card number and then I will commence disrobing and self-manipulation.
Interviewer:  (laughing)  Oh God yes, that's it exactly.  (more laughing)  Hey baby, (attempts husky guy voice)  I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"
Murdoc:  That will be twenty dollars please, Visa or Master Card?
(they both laugh)
Interviewer:  (composes)  You know (deleted), I mean Murdoc, sorry, really sorry...
Murdoc:  It's okay.
Interviewer:  What I was going to say is, you're not a dick.  It may say so in front of you, but you're not a dick.  In fact, you are exactly the guy that I had hoped you would be.  You are a man.  You have airs and old world sensibilities.
Murdoc:  Would that make me provincial?
Interviewer:  Shut up for a second.  You are strong and sensitive.  You seem to be that guy that eludes most women.  So who fucked up?
Murdoc:  Wow, you reeled me in and then the gloves came off.  This is getting good.
Interviewer:  No really, who fucked up?  Did you do something stupid and guy like?  Did you drive her away, and is this work, the HME Papers, a feeble attempt to make yourself look good?  What happened?
Murdoc:  Shit, where were you thirty minutes ago?  If you had started this interview this way, we'd be into some really good discourse now.
Interviewer:  Answer the question!
Murdoc:  Do you want the truth, or a well fabricated lie?
Interviewer:  Surprise me.
Murdoc:  We both fucked up.  It's easy to fall into routine and just exist without living.  As much as I may have loved her, I should have showed and not told.  There should have been more flowers and less, "I love you's".  She needed physical affirmations of my love.  I built her a house.  It wasn't enough.  She has the house and I'll be damned if I don't understand how she can live there.  Everything in it was designed and built by me.  I still don't understand how she can walk the floors from room to room and separate me from the damn thing.  I guess we are all built differently.  Where I live now would barely fit into our old master bathroom, and yet it is filled to the ceiling with memories of her.  There is nothing physical here to remind me of her...
Interviewer:  You packed it all away, Photographs and Misery.
Murdoc:  Yes, but it's the mental cleaning and purging that I need to work on.  This will sound silly, but I don't want to forget and shove all those great moments from our past into the wood chipper.  I respect them.  They, the memories, are a part of me now.  For good or bad.  They got me to where I am today and I think it is a sad and foolish soul that grinds them all up and hauls them away to the dump.  She is an expert at this.  She had and has, the uncanny ability to just erase her past, never look back, and start all over again.  She warned me of this when we first started dating.  Her parents warned me too.  I should have listened.
Interviewer:  Have you spoken?
Murdoc:  I speak most days, usually at work.
Interviewer:  Have you spoken to her?
Murdoc:  Not a word since the day I moved out.
Interviewer:  Really?  No contact of any kind?  No texts?  E-mail?  Drunk dialing?
Murdoc:  No.
Interviewer:  But what if...
Murdoc:  Stop.  There is no banking on "what if's".  Dreams are for sleeping.  If you are dreaming with you eyes open, you are probably the idiot on the corner with the accumulation of a life misspent in a rusty shopping cart.
(interruption from moderator)
Interviewer:  Shit, we've only got a few more minutes.
Murdoc:  So make your last question a good one.
Interviewer:  Fuck, this was just getting good.  Can we continue this over the phone?
Murdoc:  I hate phones.  How's about e-mail?
Interviewer:  Argh, it's so impersonal.  Fuck, fuck, wait (pause, she takes off her glasses and leans into the camera); what is a hit and miss engine?
Murdoc:  (big smile)  A hit and miss engine is a beautiful feat of old engineering.  They were reliable beasts forged of cast iron.  They were known and revered for their simplicity and ever-true nature.  They ran at an uneven pace compared to most combustion engines, but it is steady that wins the race.  The may not have been fast, but their speciality was torque.  And when you see or hear one, you will never forget it.  Look them up.
(interruption from moderator)
Interviewer:  Shit, we're out of time.
Murdoc:  Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?
Interviewer:  (smiling)  Yes, we're very close.  Hey, seriously, can we do this again?
Murdoc:  What more do you need to know?  As far as interviews go, I think we totally fucked this one up and accomplished nothing.  Greatness made!
Interviewer:  I'm gonna be in Baltimore next month, wanna grab a coffee?
Murdoc:  I prefer cheap beer.
Interviewer:  Hey (deleted), you're alright.
Murdoc:  Fuck, have we learned nothing today?
Interviewer:  (sarcastically) Sooorrry, Murdoc.  Hey listen...(end video conference link)    
            

Another lost weekend.

Friday, I attended "choir practice"
at the motorcycle shop.
We drank beer;
and fabricated on the Bridgeport,
a sleeve to carve the grooves into columns
for JK's cabinet shop.
We are artisans
hiding our skills
beneath flannel shirts
and foul mouths.

Saturday,
We went down to the VFW,
drank beer,
and watched a bluegrass band.
We appreciate
American roots music,
but are not past listening
to Puccini's Turandot.

Sunday,
I was back at the motrocycle shop,
for the swap meet;
where we drank beer
all morning,
and bought and resold
each others shit
until it found it's way back to where it all started.
After the exchanges,
we rode down to the marina,
and drank the afternoon away
watching the rain
come and go,
like our parts and treasures
that we bought and sold
all morning long.

I split away from the group,
during the break in the rain,
to photograph the boats,
stacked like toys in the yard.

It seemed like one good kick,
or shove,
of one support,
and they would all come crashing down.

One good kick,
or shove,
and it could all come crashing down.

And it would, too.
I know this,
because I am living
the effect of such
a callous and uncaring action.

As the rain
can back across the inlet
like a grey veil,
I snuck around the backside of the bar
and watched my friends,
form the other side
of the dirty windows.
They laughed,
and smiled,
and gestured,
with the abandon
of happy souls
drinking a rainy Sunday away.

And I stood
on the outside,
with just abandon.
The feeling,
of being a part of something
that wasn't enough to fill
the hole inside of me.
I'm glad it was raining;
the rain,
thankfully,
hid my tears.
I am good,
at being a part of something,
of everything,
and yet still being alone.

I am good
at being out there,
on the outside.
I am good
at being happy sad.
These are not traits
to be proud of.

But these traits,
have again,
become mine.

Before packing the weekend away,
I sat out back
by the water
listening to Nessun dorma.

"Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò!"

And I'll be damned,
if it didn't start raining again.