“Concrete Nouns”

By Call Me Cross

Concreteness, nouns,
How do I beat this?
Have to write this poem, lots of things to write down.
You build a poem with nouns,
And a house with concrete.
Just hope the lines don’t collapse like last week’s weak concreteness,
Nouns, falling apart like brick upon brick upon brick.
How he makes them fall like the little piggies’ house made of sticks.
How he huffs and puffs, notoriously B.I.G and tricky,
It’s the piggies’ big deal, the wolf has so much to steal.
Biggies, biggie smalls really just too damn tall!
74 inches of rhymes meant to rap in a hall,
Christopher Wallace, please crouch!
I can’t see, how fun 87 missed calls.
From the tax man? Relax man, Superman. Superfan.
But what was the name of the game?

Concreteness, nouns,
Clowns with Shao Lin swords,
Fighting for completeness,
Complacently finalizing the ups and the downs,
Until syllables become incomprehensible,
Indispensable, unreputable,
Criminals, lock your doors!
And don’t trip at the terminal, right by over the turtle.
She’ll use the shell,
To use words like spells,
Holy Hell, like a magicians mortician,
Using oxymorons with no permission.

Concreteness, nouns,
Images of a town make their frown, remain 18 pounds,
Heavier, up your set, up your test, up your,
Yup, you guessed it,
Palabras, chupacabras,
And whatever silly dress she wears instead of the gown.

Concreteness, nouns,
Duplicating evidence, putting on a pound.
As poets get heart disease,
Pretty please, stop eating all the cheese.
Your heart will ache from all the times,
He tried to rhyme oranges, using syringes.
The door hinges on whether
He can use concrete nouns,
For his deadbeat house,
I built this poem its own outhouse!

Shh!!! Don’t speak!
Delete, end the fed, look at Ed,
Look at me, look at him, look again.

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“Commune à Tea”

By Jeff Southwick

Tea leaf, fragments swimming, in my cup, you cannot, just make this stuff up, but- perhaps using a better filter will- clear up, this problem with my extracted product.

Pondering, tealeaf fragments, in my cup, I fail to see, how these fragments could- bring harm to me, though- if this brew encountered, some electricity- could new life come to be? Tea leaf fragments, in my cup, talking to me, as once did a shell- washed up from the sea seemingly, an epiphany of transparency- for how did this mollusk, come to be- a resident of the sea, instead of someone- like me?

Tea and mollusk- though not certain, just assumed, to lack adequate sentient aptitude-so either one, or both together, should not be competent to thrust their questions, upon me, thus causing such disturbance of my countenance. My tea, as I ponder our perceived difference where did this spirit begin, in me was it in some distant common ancestry, shared not with you tea, but by the chimpanzee- and me?

So my tea, could we- then, also share some common, memory beyond, what these dry bones have to tell me- for what has not, already, been pondered by the professor, of philosophy- so much more wordy- than, any fragmentary leaves in, a cup of tea.

So- if my spirituality should exceed, that, of a cup of tea- expanding exponentially, as time goes by and, erupting up beyond the sky- then is that, what, compels me, to examine the nature of this travesty, and- ask these questions- why? Then, if my cup of tea determines, my capacity to conceive of some -infinity for prose- but, when our identity is surely, measured by our clothes, then- who really knows, how to comprehend what it is we are drinking, from this fire hose when, the fire in our belly- ever larger grows?

So my tea, we- seem to be fragments, one in the same, you and me, together –forever- throughout the galaxy, passing on through, eternity, as I drink to you, and- you assimilate me- as an endless loop, of conscience consistency.

My tea has cooled, and I have consumed, thoughts uncoupled- by a spoon, too soon- my muse has ceased to sing, so I bereft am left, pondering- in the bottom of my cup- a brown debris ring, with a feeling, of uncertainty.

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“Little Pricks”

By Kevin Graves:

The publisher wants rants, well here’s a rant. “Privileged White Guy Rant”, coming at you from the mean streets of Eugene, Oregon.

Why do guys drive those insanely jacked up trucks? Not the kind of truck one shows at a car show a few times a year, but I’m talking daily drivers. Do they not know that approximately 98% of the world looks at those trucks and assumes the driver has a small penis? It’s like having a giant bumper sticker that says, “I’M FUCKING COMPENSATING!!!”

And why, inevitably, do these same guys park facing out in their parking spaces, instead of facing in, like everyone else? Are they like Clark Griswald and want to make sure they are the first one out at the end of the day when all those forward-parkers are fighting to get out of their normal, pedestrian, ordinary parking spots. The losers. I know, I know some huge percentage of wrecks happen in parking lots, so you could maybe sorta kinda make a case that parking like an asshole is safer than what everyone normal does. But really, these guys are concerned with safety? In those giant, oversized death machines? Safety is not first.

And lastly, about these same tiny-dicked-backward-parking-assholes, why is it that these guys not only lift their truck up like a kid in puberty wearing pants that are three inches off their shoes, but they throw million-dollar tires and rims that BY DEFINITION, lower the gas efficiency of the truck? And then these same guys are the first and loudest ones bitching about gas prices!

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, asking humans to be consistent is like asking a bear to not shit in the woods, but when I find myself being inconsistent, I either change my ways, or shut the fuck up. If I can do it, so can they.

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“For the Difficult, You Have To Live It”

By Call Me Cross

The online fitness space has been host to a lot of bullshit as of late. Shredded teenagers on gear who say that if you buy their programs you can look like them naturally, freaks who eat liver shirtless, and science-based influencers who say that if your bench press isn’t optimal you’ll never grow. Of course, this is merely just the tip of the iceberg, as there are a lot more problems like fake naturals, crappy supplements, photoshop, fake weights, etc…. It seems like the online fitness space has forgotten what it is about in the first place, fitness and enjoying the gym. Now it is just about vanity and fame. Whatever happened to training for fun, and lifting for lifting’s sake?

Thankfully, one man has risen above the rest to remind us why we train. This man’s name is Kyriakos Kapakoulak, or simply “Grizzly”. An athlete from Greece, Kapakoulak has been uploading to his YouTube channel since 2011, with his videos being rather simple. Most aren’t even a full minute long and are merely just clips of him doing extremely unorthodox lifts with extraordinary amounts of weight. One example would be his sled push/pull of 500 kg (1102 lbs). His channel has no advertisements, collaborations, product placements, or any of the gimmicky content creator vibes others on YouTube have. It is just a 195 kg (429 lbs) man who wants to lift heavy weight for that sake alone.

Many people have made memes of Kapakoulak, giving him nicknames such as “The Bloatlord” and “M’Bloat”. There have even been compilations of him simply screaming for ten hours all over the internet. There has been a lot of confusion and laughter regarding his heavy and unorthodox style of training, and perhaps for good reason. His form on certain movements such as the squat isn’t stellar, but the fact that he can do Zercher front raises with 340 kg (749 lbs) is a sight to be seen. That level of strength is something that even the most successful strongmen like Brian Shaw have been awestruck by. Kapakoulak was asked what he trained for on his Instagram, and his answer is perhaps the most profound piece of lifting advice ever given, “For the difficult.”

Kapakoulak’s pearl of wisdom has been followed up by another, “You have to live it.” If we are to look at these phrases, we can understand why one should train. Training for powerlifting, aesthetics, or for any sport can all be described as difficult. Albeit, they are all difficult in their own ways, but the difficulty is present. But in order to be successful in any of these athletic endeavors, one must live it. You can’t just half-ass it, you have to fully live it, and you have to embrace the difficult.

I have participated in a myriad of physical endeavors and sports, and trust me; sometimes you don’t want to train. Perhaps former Navy Seal turned ultra marathon runner and fulltime badass David Goggins put it best, “I don’t want to do half the shit I do.” Well, I can certainly relate to that, and yet athletes all around the world persist. We do these things because they are difficult, and we must train for our goals. And so while my goals have changed throughout the years, facing the difficult has been constant. When one trains for the difficult, you are ready to face it with a wicked smile and open arms. This is precisely why one should train for the difficult and why we should voluntarily expose ourselves to difficult things. One cannot predict when the difficult will appear, but when it does, you can be ready for it.

For this reason, Kyriakos Kapakoulak is perhaps the both the biggest enigma in fitness, yet also the most pure athlete on YouTube. There is no commentary, no drama, and fitness guru tips. There is just a man who trains because he loves it. He lives the difficult, and it is something that we can apply to perhaps any endeavor in life.

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“Markets and Money”

By Ulitka Krasnyy

A man I know once said, “Capitalism was a good seed that became corrupted over time.” In this essay I am going to examine whether markets (the first seed of capitalism) and money (the second seed of capitalism) are truly good seeds. Are they even neutral seeds? Capitalism hasn’t become corrupted over time, it is just finally reaping the fruits of its labors. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit. If something becomes corrupted, it must have had qualities that lent itself towards corruption. Gold can never tarnish, iron always rusts. All time occurs at once, therefore the monolith capitalism has become lies coded into the DNA of its tiny seeds: markets and money.

Markets, by their very nature, foster dishonesty. People are selfish by nature, and if the only way to acquire their means of subsistence is the selling and trading of goods they will most likely either lie about the quality of their wares or engage in unequal trades. The need for markets was created by production and ownership of objects, and the need for a universal means of exchange was created by markets. If one person makes unequal trades, or if bartering standards cannot be agreed upon, or perhaps there is too much of one thing, a currency is necessary. Money is the unforeseen consequence of the market.

Markets have also created the need to sell oneself. If you have no wares to sell or trade in the market for means of substinence, your body is the last frontier or, in many cases, your children’s bodies. Prostitution, getting sold into slavery, blood donation, Indian women selling their hair all stem from the market. In a sense, the market desanctifies the body. Ultimately the market desanctifies everything. All objects, beings, and bodies become commodities to be sold or traded.

Those who wish to free the market confuse variety of selection with freedom. Being able to chose between twenty competing brands of toothpaste does not erase any of the problems created by the market. If the market is free to ravage humanity, which it already is, competition in the market would still inevitably end in monopoly. If we are subordinating ourselves to an imaginary system, markets, we are not free. Albert Camus said that real freedom is a submission to a value1. The market has no values except to expand itself. Hence, if we free the market, we are all slaves.

The end result of the market is that it absorbs every aspect of our lives. Its framework becomes all-encompassing, and we are no longer able to operate outside of it. Community can no longer exist without the market.

Money, a result of the market, fosters greed. Greed is ultimately a fear based emotion; one takes more than one needs in order to be sure to have enough for oneself. Money, since it does not spoil, is far easier to stockpile and hoard than food, clothes, livestock etc. Money becomes a protective cushion preventing hardships. The more money you have, the more insulated you are from its ravages.

Now money rules every aspect of our lives. We are completely unable to live without money, and living with it means either to work or to be born rich. In our modern age work is not something that directly benefits the worker, we are not creating anything for ourselves. All that work consists of now is selling one’s time for money. Therefore, we are all commodities of the market, unless we are useless to it, in which case we are pushed aside to rot.

The argument for capitalism would say that it gives people freedom of movement within the class structure. The problem is that if you wish to raise yourself up, you must surrender to money and the market. Capitalism is a huge, hideous machine grinding human lives through its jaws so it can keep growing. I would have to say that money and the market were bad seeds and capitalism is a truly monstrous tree. The workings of its systems bring out the worst qualities of human nature and crush the best ones under its gold-plated jack boots.

To end on a hopeful note, we are all equal whether we like it or not (unfortunately most people do not like it). We are all born, and we all die. True justice comes when the rich man lays on his death bed realizing he has lived in vain, tormented by the blood on his hands. Those who live truthfully die with grace and courage. The only thing we can do in our lives is to participate in the system as little as possible, respect the Earth and its creatures, and help our fellow travelers on this strange, twisted road of life.

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“Pilgrim Bay”

By Leo Rivers

One night the fog rolled in and drew a curtain across the Stars. And as I continued my meditation at the Attic Window the cyclops Moon, as if covered by a cataract, looked balefully back through the fog at me, sitting at my chair at my desk with my pen laid down beside the pad. My cat touched my leg with its paw and, looking down at my friend, my heart was warmed and I was prevented from being drawn in my spirit up into space and the Stars unseen beyond the fog spread out upon the crumpled silhouette of the ancient port and antiquty of the verdant hills and dark valleys of Pilgrim Bay.

Pilgrim Bay

Like Empires to the desert sands of the Nile came to Pilgrim Bay by land and by sea Humanity’s Wild Variety. Witches and Pirates and Tyrants and Priests, (of both of Heaven and Hell), they came to the spires and came to the cobbles and came to gamble with their souls and then in time with Generations the generations that once were giants diminished into dwarves and then the Seasons of Pilgrim Bay came more seldom. Until came at last that last season as all the last years of an old man come to be seen – one long season of dwindling and darkness, so too, one long last season of fog and darkness came to Pilgrim Bay.

The life force of Pilgrim Bay grew poor in spirit like the grapes of a field whose substance has gone. Life in Pilgrim Bay became a bellows whose breath was gone. And all of these once noble but now weedy old houses, but the old bookstore at the top of the hill and the grand old Inn down at the Docks, were now a closed hand to all but the residents recluse within. And all of the World Outside who passed through this town on the way North or South would spend their night and go on without knowing what became of the town or where if they were there they were hidden.

Or what secrets were hidden with them.

One out of 100 or maybe one out of a dozen I have no way to know which way to choose. But once in a moon perhaps a blue moon a man who comes to rent a room at the Grand Old Inn overlooking the docks and the ships that to have been parked for centuries at them. One out of 100 or one out of a dozen I don’t know out of which of these I was chosen. But I know I had no beard when I first roomed here. AND I know I had not grown long-haired and gray when I first came to this grand old Inn overlooking the bay. But there came the day in my continued stay I had opened the window looking out on the sea and invited the cat – and now I am not without a companion, (perhaps an angel), to speak his howl and call beside me.

But He who was still a kitten when first I came to Pilgrim Bay and then came to rent this room was now old and gray-tipped black fur covered the bulk of him. My bones my bones groan with his and we both mew as we move about the room. I take the tray with my evening supper and wine to the door and groaning set it down. And I turn around and the cat has lept upon the desk and stationed at the pad and pressed the pen upon the paper with an arthretic paw and looked at me as if I finally after all these years spent with him knew what to do when sitting at the table at the window like a prisoner with a view.

“Aye, old friend”, I said “old friend I think it’s now the time to bend to fate and finally bring this business to an end.”

And so I went and sat again, and at the window beheld the fog thin at the zenith a portal to enter in. One star shown there, a purple star hard to see within. The star I knew to be the star of the Dark Man, and the sigil and portal at my wanderings end.

Kneeding my fingers in the old cats fur, his purr soothing the anger in my joints, I bend my knees to stand. Then trembling and frieghtened I stand.

“Will you go with me old friend? I asked of Him.

Said he, said he “Am I not your Companion?”

And as the seas groaned out on Witch’s Reef and the race that was a scaly Beast made their Mardi Gras of celebration dancing and drinking to the Dragon, my cat lept over the Moon and this old man flew too to follow him!

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“The Bitter Billionaire”

By Myka Mckinney

When he revealed himself to be a billionaire, I was certainly impressed but otherwise unintimidated, as most of my patrons are of substantial means. My wealth of artistic talent has always given me the feeling of being equal, if not superior in most ways. Having proven my worth with the work I did in his home on the Mandalay Bay in Southern California, I was invited to accompany him, along with his third wife, and if I remember correctly—fifth baby to their 300 acre estate on the Puget Sound in Washington.

I won’t elaborate our adventurous caravan up the west coast other than to mention—he drove the Cornish Rolls with wife and child while I followed in his customized Land Rover unwittingly carrying 600 pounds of silver bouillon hidden beneath the floor.

After traveling three and a half days on Highway1, staying in the best hotels and eating at the finest restaurants along the way, we stop to load-up on groceries and liquor, just before arriving at our destination. It was a brisk day in June, the blue sky felt more crisp than I was used to and I was eager to explore this strange and curious place. He casually mentions—he owns all the land visible to the eye, from the forested mountains high above… to the steep cliffs of the Puget Sound below.

The first thing anyone would notice is a public easement traversing his property lined with 40 ft tall trolls, each carved from a single massive tree trunk, each bearing a hideous expression, seeming to imply bitter resentment toward anyone daring to use the road.

It’s hard to miss the purple, castle-styled gatehouse adjacent to fierce-looking copper dragon gates finished in patina green. Across from the would-be castle stands the reproduction of a 17th century grange, flanked by torrented towers on each of the four corners. Opposite the gates, stands the main house; an adjacent pair of steep A-frame homes painted an Indian-red replete with native northwest totem poles. Behind it, manicured gardens lead to a classic New Hampshire style covered bridge, and beyond—an open-air hay barn featuring a pyramidal roof supported at each corner on the shoulders of a sturdy troll, each masterfully carved from a solid block of wood. Standing in the field, casually munching on mowed-meadow grass—a single white horse, posing as to inspire mystic childhood fantasies.

We spend several weeks together viewing various houses, deer paddocks, barns and out-buildings. He expresses extreme confidence in my ability and authorizes me to have my way with the entire estate, to build, design, decorate, or demolish at my discretion. To symbolize my high-status, he presents me with a sterling, jewel-encrusted scepter. It was obvious to all we got along quite well, certainly better than he did with his young bride. At times, he would even tell me—I loves you, though I never took it in a way he didn’t mean.

I ask—why a purple castle? He explains—the towns-people filed suit against his construction of an ostentatious castle in their otherwise modest neighborhood but were unsuccessful in court. Out of pure spite, he says, he painted the castle purple just to make it all the more obnoxious, in the same way the aggressive-looking trolls manning it’s towers were intended to aggravate them all the more.

He relates the story of his one-time good friend who lives a short distance down the street in his generations-old family cottage, the one with the big picture-window gazing-out through the forest to the sunset-sea beyond. Something went awry in their relationship, he doesn’t say what, but apparently it was sufficient justification for him to purchase and consolidate the two lots directly across the street from the cottage and build the biggest, boxiest 10,000 sq ft house the code would allow, for no other reason that to forever block this man’s view of the ocean.

Retuning to the main house, he pauses at the gates and points-out the barred windows atop the turrets on the corners of the grange. Behind the bars…..portraits of his previous wives. He chuckles with self-satisfaction. I couldn’t help but wonder how his current wife felt about the remaining empty windows.

June is an especially beautiful time to be in Washington. Clear, sunny days are less frequent and more greatly appreciated than in souther California. One pristine morning, I venture alone, barefoot through the garden, across the covered bridge, under the hay-barn and tip-toe through clods of turned-soil to the white horse standing solemnly in the field. He exhibits no reaction to my stroking it’s long mane, and seems to appreciate my kind words.

Not athletic by nature, nor particularly familiar with horses, with the naiveté of a six-year old and all the strength I can muster, and I grab a fist-full of the horses mane and hoist myself in a single leap onto its broad, muscular back.

Unfortunately, my client, confident as he may have been, has one problem I am unable to fix. I could have done anything with his properties, mansions are second nature to me, but his relationship with alcohol ignites a brooding, oft-threatening monster, not unlike like the dragons on his gate. By now, his wife feels much the same as I. One day, in a fit of anger and frustration, she grabs her baby, a bag, and abandons him once and for all. This leaves me to wipe the drool from his sloppy chin whilst spot-cleaning his silk shirt in a vain effort to maintain appearances at any cost.

I manage the situation as well as anyone could but I too begin to feel under-appreciated. Ensuing days of drunken madness is certainly more than I was bargaining-for, so despite a ten-year, ten-million dollar contract, despite receiving checks every week that I never needed to cash because I never had a need that wasn’t met, I felt it was time to reassess my value. I demanded he double my salary.

Having calmed-down after a few days of reassessing her own situation, the wife surprisingly returns through a side-door just as I’m putting my demands forward. One of her painted eyebrows with the sternness of a schoolmarm rises higher than the other. She pulls me aside and asks—is my husband gay?

Meaning only to dissuade her apprehension with simple open-mindedness, never intending to arm her with fonder, I say—all men are a little gay. It was one of those peculiar occasions when I may have said more than needed to be heard.

That’s all she needs.

It’s decided we should all go into Seattle to sober-up and cool our nerves. We get rooms in a nice hotel. This gives me time to shop for fall clothes, but for them…time to make-up, as apparently this behavioral pattern is not new to either of them. Only I was sucked-in. Only I must now be spit-out. Only my breathing stands between him and public humiliation, not to mention inevitable charges of marital fraud.

The ride back to the haven is conducted in total silence. He offers me no eye contact, no reassuring smile. Upon returning, I discover my office has been ransacked, my stack of uncashed checks is missing. The page in my address book with his name and number has been torn-out. The film in my camera has been removed. My symbolic scepter has disappeared. Any trace of my having been at this place has been systematically removed.

It doesn’t take a prophet of God to read the writing on the wall. I quickly pack what clothes I can carry and head-out on foot hoping to escape his inevitable rage. I knock on the door of the first neighbor. I beg— can I use your phone?! I should have known—they fear him too. Next thing I knew—one of his groundsman is pounding at their door, demanding I return with him.

That night, the longest in my life, I lie sleepless beneath the fussy moon veiled in thick ocean air wondering…. will he drop my body from his private plane over the ocean, or from the yacht he has moored in the harbor, or possibly buried beneath the thousand feet of his deer trampling the paddocks.

The white horse reared-up, bolted, then stoped-short, casting my body javelin-like over its head, recklessly crashing me onto mine; fantasy instantly dispelled. Though seriously disappointed, I was able to gather my wits about me, stand, and dust myself off, fully aware I was lucky to be alive to tell the story. I eventually escaped with the helpful intervention of wealthy friends.

Later I would learn, the horse had never been ridden, nor would it ever be. Indeed, one day it would come to represent the inherent dangers of mistaking illusion for reality.

As for the billionaire, repeated run-ins with police and charges of spousal abuse would eventually end in multiple court appearances, complete lose of public-image, the dissolution of another marriage, a huge settlement, child-support payments, and one more portrait behind-bars in a grange turret’s window.

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“Remastered”

By Myka McKinney

Wealthy, handsome and spoiled, with an attitude that makes it easy to dismiss his finer features, Andrew Taylor Scott, gazes through the French-lace sheers that filter the afternoon sunlight, casting delicate shadows across his all-white bedroom carpet and silk duvets. Andrew Taylor Scott is a man for whom maturity has done little to temper his arrogance; a man who by all rights should show some sign of gratitude, perhaps an inkling of modesty considering his good fortune came not by his own labor nor cleverness but by that of a distant relative whom he’d never gotten to know nor, frankly, ever cared to know, but his great-uncle Cornelius’s Spanish mansion in Beverly Hills, and finely crafted furnishings are indeed rare and precious…thus suitable to reflect the image he holds of himself.

He watches as the hired-help, a crew of Salvadoran women, walk the long driveway after their days work; checking to assure himself they aren’t carrying-off anything they shouldn’t. He refuses to let them park their car on the estate, telling them it’s because he considers their car to be unsightly, not admitting it’s mainly to afford himself the opportunity to frisk them visually as they leave. They are a relatively new-hire, and trust is not a virtue Andrew easily extends.

It’s five-o’clock. Andrew’s husband, Randal, should be home any minute.

Randal is an entirely different kind of man. Half of Andrew’s age, he more than makes-up for what Andrew lacks with kindness of heart and generosity of spirit. During the day he’s just—“Randy”, to everyone at the charity bazaar where he works, but that name doesn’t appeal to Andrew, sounds too ‘pedestrian’ he says, so in the evenings, he’s “Randal” around the house, or when they’re out together in public. Randy is good-natured and has a way of overlooking Andrew’s pretentiousness. He knows he wouldn’t have to work if he didn’t want to. After all, they are legally married and by all rights, half of Andrew’s inherited wealth is his, but Randy doesn’t think about things that way. Besides, he hesitates to take anything for granted knowing Andrew has a long history of relationships with younger men. It was only because Andrew got into some kind of legal trouble a while back that they married as quickly and unceremoniously as they did, mainly to prevent Randal from being forced to testify should a case be brought to trial. Without a witness, the case was dropped and nothing more was said. Since they still get along as well as they do, being married hasn’t been an issue. Nevertheless, Randal prefers to be useful more than purely ornamental, so he helps-out three days a week at the bazaar.

Max is gay too, though most people wouldn’t think so. He has a rugged, weathered look to him, unaffected by trends or the need to be pretty, still, he has what it takes to be attractive when the situation calls for it. He lives in a cottage adjacent to the garages on the back of the property and serves as a Jack-of-all-trades for Mr Scott: occasional driver, bodyguard, confidante, pool maintainer, and is basically responsible for any domestic task necessary to keep Andrew from getting his hands dirty. He values his situation, knowing full-well his alcoholism would not be tolerated by other employers. Andrew knows this too and leverages Max’s disability it to his advantage.

The Abby is the most popular gay bar in West Hollywood, very trendy and definitely the place to be seen, particularly if you’re either rich or beautiful, and since Mr & Mr Scott are both, they are well-recognized and always well-received, though for obvious reasons…one of them is not necessarily well-liked.

The Abby owners announce they will be hosting an open-mic poetry-slam on Wednesday evening, which for all intents and purposes seems like a perfect distraction for men with time and money on their hands. In West Hollywood, it’s hard not to run into someone who isn’t promoting a book, or a screenplay, ever-looking for that big-break, hoping to be discovered. Eager talent abounds, so Wednesday’s poetry-slam ignites a lot of interest.

Andrew calls Max on his cell. “Max, Randal and I will be attending an event at the Abby tonight. I’d like you to drive us. Drop us off in front at 9:00. If you can find a park, you may join us later. I’d like to take the Bentley.”

“You think that wise”, asks Max.

“It’s been long enough”’ Andrew says. “Besides, I saw two other white Bentleys just today. Everybody knows I have one. It might seem more suspicious if they don’t see me using it. You got that little problem with the front fender taken care of didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. Of course. I took care of it immediately.”

“Well it shouldn’t be a problem then.”

“Oh, and Max…no drinking tonight. Got that?”

“Of course, Sir. Shall I pull around to the front?”

“No. We’ll meet at the garage and leave by the back gate just to be on the safe side.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Randal is in the kitchen. His culinary skills are modest but he is nonetheless enthusiastic as he removes his homemade macaroni and cheese with toasted bread crumbs hot from the oven.
“I hate to go to these things on an empty stomach,” he says, hoping Andrew is as pleased with his effort as is he.

“Carbs and cheese” says Andrew. “Are you trying to kill me or just fatten my ass?”

“You need carbs for energy. You don’t want to be falling asleep in the middle of the show”, Randal insists.

“I think I’ll just order something when we get there.”

Only slightly disappointed, Randal takes a big spoonful and blows on it to cool. “Alright…but you’re missing-out”, Randal says, satisfying himself with a single bite. “Max will eat it.”

Showtime. Andrew selects his traditional attire, a white linen suit, white shoes, and shirt. His 6’2” height and slender frame elongated all the more with a white Fedora.

Randal, a tidy 5’7”, tucks his bubble-butt into well-worn Levis and dons a small-size baby-blue T-shirt, accentuating his eyes and perfect proportions.

Max had the white 2004 Bentley sedan freshly buffed and was looking the part in his black leather pants, gloves and chauffeur cap. The Bentley had been parked in the garage, unused for several months but it’s one of Andrew’s favorite cars, all of which are white, so he chose to bring it out tonight in honor of better days.

“What’s that painting still doing here,” Andrew bellows. “I thought we got rid of that thing. Wouldn’t they take it at the bazaar?”

“I hesitated to take it in,” Randal explains, “thinking you might change your mind about it. After all, it’s the portrait of your great-uncle who built this place. It’s irreplaceable and couldn’t possibly be worth more to someone else.”

The painting of Cornelius Peyton Scott looks eerie leaning against the garage wall along with other miscellaneous items ear-marked for disposal. Perhaps it was just the lighting but he appears to be scowling.
“I gave it a chance”, Andrew miffs, “I certainly wasn’t going to leave it hanging in the great room. I didn’t like it in the library or billiard room, and who would want it starring down on them in any of the guest suites? I sure don’t want to look at it. I have no sentimental attachment to him or it. It creeps me-out. I want it gone.

“It’s nine o’clock,” says Max, “we should be going.”

“I’m not worried”, Andrew insists, “they’ll hold my table until I get there.”

Within fifteen minutes, Max is dropping them off in front of The Abby. The place is crowded as usual, gas patio-heaters are a-blazing, but the atmosphere was slightly less talkative than most nights. Inside, a heavy-set Fluid with colorful-tattoos, heavy-piercings and faded blue hair stands at the microphone reciting an angry diatribe possessing neither pentameter nor rhyme.

The host welcomes Andrew and Randal and escorts them to their table.

“Can I get you something to drink”, he asks softly so as not to distract the poet.

“I’ll start with a Cabernet”, says Andrew in a bombastic tone, “while I consider how much of this I can stand”.

Randal orders a Corona beer with a tequila shot and a margarita.

The drinks arrive, the poet concludes, the crowd applauds, and the MC introduces the next poet.

“Im not sure where he’s from, or when, there’s a mild chuckle from a few, but let’s give a warm welcome to, MyKA, who will be reciting an original work entitled—Masters of the House.

From the shadows emerges an elderly young-man, obviously a throw-back from old hippy-days. He’s tall, gaunt, with long-hair, wearing a floor-length hooded robe. He steps-up to the microphone.

“Oh God”, says Andrew, loudly motioning to the waiter, “I’m gonna need another drink, this wine isn’t going to cut it. Bring me four shots of whiskey and an Irish coffee.”

“By the time you’re back I’ll be ready for another round,” says Randal.

In a voice raspy and deep, MyKA begins…

“Stories of Love are often told
By romantics young, and mystics old
By heavenly stars
Love’s light unfolds
On human hearts it’s rhythm”.

The waiter delivers their order. Andrew downs two shots immediately and sips the Irish coffee. Randal is feeling warm and relaxed and is in the mood to listen.

“But before I speak of love’s intrigue
Heartless abandonment, and denial,
Let me describe the lay of land,
Impressions worth a pleasant smile.

Two rivers converge the lands high ground,
Escorting to the seas,
Mighty forests of evergreen,
Whose bough could bend the morning breeze”.

The poetry is having a hypnotic affect on Randal. He closes his eyes and releases his imagination.

“We take a craft, de-board at pier,
Give baggage to our coachman,
And while he travels on ahead,
We’ll walk as I do often.

The path we take is plain to see,
Planted very liberally
With trees and flowers—so intense
They suffice to serve as critters fence,
Whose nibbling only seems to thin
The very thing that keeps them in”.

Andrew, ever contrary to anything tender, becomes louder and harder to ignore.

“Watch now as we turn,
See colors soften,
Contrasts fade,
Bird song pauses,
Winds whisper,
And for a brief moment,
There is silence.
Now watch for crimson Hollyhock
That line this path they tower
And bend to arch
Our graceful stroll
With fists of yet unopened flower”.

“Is there supposed to be music to this?” Andrew thinks he’s reading the room but is merely reinforcing his reputation as a self-inflated dickhead.

“There! Beyond the fields of corn and rye,
Between the mountain and the sky,
A great house sits like a throne on high,
Bringing dignity to the earth,
Like heaven having given birth.
It’s roofs are high.
It’s views are many.
It’s chimneys tote of wealth and plenty.
A setting sun on shingles show
A craft forgotten long ago,
Nor are any still around
That might recall constructions sound.

It’s windows, walls and floors are stone,
Burnished smooth by time alone.
They echo soft the servants scurry,
And loud the voice of noble fury”.

The busboy comes to their table to clear away the empty glasses. He’s a particularly nice looking Hispanic and enjoys prolonged eye-contact with Randal, but in doing so, the edge of his tray accidentally knocks-over Andrew’s un-finished glass of red wine, smashing it against the table and splashing all-over Andrew’s white linen suit. Andrew jumps out of impulse to avoid the inevitable, knocking over the table and everything on it.

“You stupid wet-back! Now look what you’ve done! Andrew is livid, a condition easily accessed after a couple of drinks. “You ruined a suit that costs more than you make in a year. How you gonna pay for that…huh? You stupid Mexican”.

MyKA pauses until the commotion calms itself.

A team of well-rehearsed waiters and busboys work in tandem cleaning-up the shattered glassware, wiping-up the spilt drinks, setting the table aright, and bringing a fresh set of drinks compliments of the house.

The busboy is apologetic but Andrew is in no mood to forgive and loudly demands he be fired. The owner motions to Jesus to leave the room and comes over to the table to apologize in his behalf.

“He’s new and inexperienced”, the owner explains. “If you send me the cleaning-bill I’ll take care of it personally”.

“Let’s just get back to the poetry, alright! What’s done is done. Andrew tries to claim the high ground unaware it’s already been pulled-out from under him.

MyKA continues…

“The Masters House lives very well,
A visitor can plainly tell,
But peace not only ruled this land,
And there was suffering at the hand
Of ignorance and fear—
Even people we hold dear.

Imaginative listeners might assume
This house and gracious land were doomed
But it was not the threat of army leagues or cataclysmic famine
It was for Love—or the lack thereof that did its halls contamin.”

Randal is quiet, listening to MyKa speak. Inside, however, he is furious. He felt something for that busboy, Jesus, and is ashamed of how Andrew behaved over that stupid suit. He gets them from a mail-order catalog out of Indonesia for less than $100 each, and must own twenty of them.

“I was young some years ago,
And must regress if one’s to know,
To be told a story must begin,
And the teller find himself within”.

Max found a parking space but decided to stay with the car. Having remembered to bring his flask with him, he puts the seat back to relax, waiting until Andrew decides to call.

“The Masters House was much like now,
With farmers carts and wagons driven,
Indentured servants, apprentice trade,
All by Master’s order given.

The Master had a son, sole heir,
Bereft of any brother,
Who bore the burden of
Marriages duty, though first
He loved another,
But she was born of servants blood
Not the type to breed
Heirs to the Masters House,
And so was planted bitter seed”.

Randal excuses himself….says he needs to use the can. Andrew is drowning himself in self-pity as if it was whiskey, and doesn’t make a remark.

“To his father, and the house he lied,
And to the face of his new bride,
Affairs with servant-girls denied,
With frozen-heart he turned.
There was talk to put the servant out,
But because the truth was still in doubt,
Decision was made to keep her down,
Or bear the brunt of Masters frown.

Unbeknown to Masters son,
For she hid her pain and smiled,
And kept a secret in her womb,
And told no one it was his child.
She labored hard beneath the floors,
In cellars and back stairs,
And bore her child behind dark doors,
Helped by those who answer prayers.
A mothers love is bonded strong,
For Hope there is no replacement,
She hid her son from his Lord,
And raised him in the basement”.

Randal heads for the restrooms, but diverts toward the kitchen. He asks where Jesus is. “He’s out-back”, they tell him. Randal slips through the chaos, out the screen door into the alley behind the kitchen. Jesus has been told to stay out of sight until Mr Scott leaves. He’s emptying cans of trash into the larger dumpster.

When Jesus sees Randal he looks down in shame.

“No! Don’t feel that way. You’ve done nothing wrong, Randy says. I’m so sorry for the way you were treated, and ashamed of the man who did it.

“Meanwhile, upstairs, all was gay.
New Master’s wife gave birth one day,
And for all any knew, the only one,
So celebrated they the Masters Son.
And to this child, the world was given,
All the promise of his lot,
While below in whispers and muffled cries,
Lay the son that love forgot.
Neither could he understand his mothers shame
When a fever relieved her of her name
And left it on a simple stone.
Him, to find himself alone.”

“It’s ok”, Jesus offers. “I didn’t take it personally. I’m not Mexican. I’m from Salvador.”

“The Master’s butler knew the story,
But fearing for positions glory,
To spare the Master’s household hell,
Promised God he’d never tell,
But he kept a distant watchful eye
Upon this young man growing,
And meld him with the downstairs staff,
The house’s inner-workings showing”.

Police spot Max drinking in the car. They arrest him for being under the influence and run a make on the car. Their inquiry brings more questions and Max starts singing like a canary.

“Upstairs, more delightful days, a
Lord’s son prospers many ways,
Fashioned by the style imparted,
Grows tall and strong and gentle hearted.
As adolescent compulsions grew,
He learned his roll commanding crew,
But to find the place only privacy fills,
He sought out a cave in the nearby hills”.

“That’s interesting”, says Randy. We just hired new housekeepers and they’re from Salvador too. Maybe you know them.”

“Indentured servants know long duress,
But find late at night a time for recess.
Young man escapes from the basement brave
To play by himself in that moonlit cave”.

“Maybe I do. My father was killed last July by a hit and run driver, so my mother, sisters and I needed to get jobs to support ourselves. They got hired as housekeepers for a big mansion in Beverly Hills. I came here.

“What was this special place they found,
Two boys alternating time around,
One by day, and one by night
They learned of each other without having the sight.
Always alone, together they played,
A message in sand, or by sticks arrayed.
They knew from the start their friendship was banned,
Attached to ideas they did not understand
But happy in the thought of each others existence,
They conspired between them to remove any distance”.

“Did they ever find who did it,” Randy asks.

“They never did”, Jesus says. “They have security-camera footage showing it was a white 2004 Bentley sedan but it could not see the license plate or who was driving, so they have no way of proving anything. No witnesses came forward”

“It was the Masters son who advanced their fate,
Excusing himself, slipped out late,
And there in the moonlight—met his mate
As they beheld each other.
Face to face they understood
The feelings of their childhood.
Not knowing of their brotherhood,
They promised to love forever”.

“Here. I want you to take this”. Randy pulls a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s the least I can do for the scene my husband made tonight.”.

“No. No. I don’t want to take money from you. It’s you I want”.

He doesn’t have to say it twice. Randy and Jesus lock-lips and start making-out behind the dumpster.

“Sinuous saplings, eager to grow,
Upright intentions are natural to show.
Facts in the face are hard to deny.
Some questions are answered without asking why.
The moon shines soft on flesh in the night.
Moist marble glistens by dawns early light.
Two voices groan the same song as one.
Birds of a feather all greet the same sun”.

Police enter the Abby asking if a man by the name of Andrew Taylor Scott is there. The owner points to his table. Andrew is too plastered to understand what’s happening. Nevertheless he is handcuffed, read his rights and placed under arrest for suspicion of vehicular manslaughter, tampering with evidence, and fleeing the scene of a crime.

“It wasn’t enough cheated lives could now heal,
There still was concern how the household would deal.
You see, relationships of this sort, between men,
Are hard to admit, hard to defend.
The truth of their nature already denied,
They accepted that love was a sin, and so lied.

When the prosecuting attorney presented the case, Randal recognized the timeline and understood why Andrew had been so spontaneous to “make it official”. To say he felt used would be an understatement. He told the judge exactly where Andrew had been at that particular moment in time.

Our story continues, though now, Love, turns the page.
Young men soon enter their coming of age,
Masters inherit their ancestral place,
(What some cannot see they find easier to face).

The young men avoided the obligation to marry,
And for cover, instructed the servants to carry
A rumor designed to account their affection,
And send rattling tongues in another direction.

And so, THIS incredible tale was conceived,
That they were, half-brothers, the real truth? Indeed!
Well, whatever the ‘real truth’, the fact is – they paired,
And the wealth of the land was the life that they shared.
Whether as brothers, or as husband and spouse,
Together – as ONE – they Mastered their House.

Despite numerous distractions, the audience offers gracious applause to the old poet who humbly bows his head and walks away, only to be reabsorbed into the shadows from whence he came.

Andrew Taylor Scott loses his case in court and is sentenced to three to five years in State Penitentiary but his prick-ish attitude doesn’t serve him well in prison. After just three weeks he dies in his cell from internal injuries.

As Andrew’s legal spouse, Rand, the name he goes-by now, is eventually awarded 100% of the estate. Having moved Jesus, his mother and sisters into the house several months ago, together they create a loving, happy home, and one of the first things they do is restore Cornelius’s portrait to its proper place above the fireplace in the great room.

Now, admittedly the lighting in the great room is different than it is in the garage, but everyone swears the scowl can no longer be seen…and there are a few who insist they detect the slightest glimmer of satisfaction on old Cornelius Peyton’s face.

 

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“Untitled”

By DeBobby Ross

It is a cool Oregon morning and for Hailey, war is about to begin. She is skilled. Her father, a former Sheriff, taught her how to hit a mark.

The event — first of the new season — is a get-to-know-you, team building exercise for the Cheerleading squad of the university.

“Okay ladies!”, shouts the Cheer Team Instructor. “You have your paintball guns and 300 rounds of ammo. The men have green ammo. You have orange. You want your team to win by being the last one standing. So defend yourself and protect your teammates.”

On the other side, an instructor talks to the men.

“Ohhh god, we are going to get smashed”, says Natalie, the star junior on the squad.

Hailey — the freshman — looks over, catches Natalie’s gaze, and smiles.

Natalie sees, raises an eyebrow.

Hailey looks across to the competition, 60 yards away. It is 10-on-10. All guys verses all girls. Hailey smiles again, whispers “bring it on”.

The Cheer Team Instructor begins her pregame speech, “Ladies, this is the challenge. Work together to overcome. We have three minutes and counting to the starting gun. Now what I want you to do is talk among yourselves, claim your immediate cover spots…”

Hailey lets the instructor’s words fade into the background. She has an idea. She will take one out immediately. Scanning the group, she wonders to herself, “Who is not paying attention? It’s Sunday morning… one of them has to still be drunk. One of them has to be high. Who? Him? No. He looks fresh. Him? No. She focuses intensely. Him! Oh, and he’s big. He’s going to be slow. Yes, and she can see he is zoning off. He is a dead duck.”

While the other girls crouch a bit, into running position, Hailey gets into firing position. She is right handed, so she rotates slightly and puts her left foot forward a half step. No clues, so she keeps the gun down, in draw position.

11 seconds on the clock.

The Team Instructor: “Avoid shooting each other. Friendly fire counts as a kill.”

“Oh, okay, now her goose looks to be a bit ready. Which way is he going to run?”, Hailey anticipates.

3 seconds.

The starting gun rises in the air.

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“My First Kiss”

By Frank Harper

The summer of 1967 I was 17 years-old living in San Jose, California when I finally had a chance to go on my very first date. The Santa Clara County Fair was going on and I thought that was the best place to take Diane on a very warm Friday evening. Diane was a petite French girl that took a lot of nerve for me to ask her out. First of all, she was so cute and my biggest fear was being rejected because I was a awkward teenager. Much to my surprise she said, “Yes!” Now the nerves were kicking in because I was not experienced in the art of dating. I had never kissed a girl and I thought about the movie, Casablanca where the song was sung several times – A-Kiss-is-just-a-Kiss! I was working at Wools Cannery and I was able to get off early so I could wash and wax my 1952 Chevrolet pickup just so I can impress Diane on this special occasion.

My truck was waxed and cleaned and I put on my best Blue Jeans and I drove to Diane’s house. I got out of my truck and the next thing I knew I was greeted at the front door not by Diane, but her father. Oh boy I could see he was very protective of his lovely daughter and I assured him that we would be back home by 11:00pm. Diane was very anxious to say good-bye to her father and she grabbed my hand we were out the door – free at last! I opened the passenger door to my truck and Diane got in and slid over and I ran around the back of my truck and I opened my door – I could see she would be sitting right next to me. My heart was beating so fast I thought I would need oxygen. I tried to calm myself down because I didn’t want the dreaded sweaty arm pits.

We made it to the fair and we had a great time eating cotton candy, strawberry short cake and the best hotdogs in the world. We visited the animal barns and scratched the pigs and cattle. We rode the Farris Wheel and had a blast on the Bumper Cars. We decided that in order to get on the good side of her father that we should not be late and be at her house by 11:00pm and I actually pulled up to her house at about 10:45.

I shut off the engine of my truck and we talked about what a great time we had. You know that feeling when you just got to go for it – remember that first kiss. Well I made my move lifted my arm to romantically put my arm behind her neck and wham – my elbow hit her smack in her left eye. The last word I expected to hear out of this sweet little voice was – OUCH! I couldn’t believe it as I looked at her eye that was now red and swelling – this was not good. As the shock subsided – Diane knew that her father was waiting up for her. Diane said to me, “Frank you need to come in the house and explain to my father about my black eye!” Talk about the “Kiss of Death” I had to face her father, but I had to stand up to him and explain to him that I accidently hit Diane with my elbow. He was actually very understanding and I felt extremely humiliated. That was the longest drive I had ever taken in my truck as I headed home. My mom asked me the following morning how my date was? I simple said, “Mom you don’t want to know!”

Well a few weeks later Diane and I we went to a movie and this time I was very careful and Diane ducked her head for safety reasons – I landed my first kiss. A couple of years later I was shipped to participate in the Vietnam War and I lost track of the girl who gave me that first kiss.

I eventually got married, with elbow pads, and had two kids. The marriage didn’t last and we got divorced and I raised the boys as a single-parent. I have never forgotten about Diane who gave me my first kiss and I will never forget her father.

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