Great Cosmic Donuts

“Oh great psychoanalytical babbler save us from the evil infomercial of the multi-use, non-functional, two for the price of one plus shipping demon that haunts us across the never-ending-airwaves.

Yea; thou art the progeny of Edgar Allen Poe and a Nubian snake dancer, defender of that which is bottled last and sold first. Thy promise is the antithesis of the material, desired yet unobtainable."

Reality set in as Hobart stood from his lamentations and looked upon the flickering icon of Bob Barker. The three story tall image stared out beatifically stupid from its wall wide monitor.

His pleading changed nothing, Hobart’s happiness still hinged on getting the right six numbers on one ticket in Saturday night’s lottery. The little book of verse vibrated but he wasn’t going to feed any more dimes into the prayer box, he let the slim volume retract into its holder.

The pain in his knees from all that praying subsided as he contemplated his plight. He knew nothing about the spiritual world and too much about the material one. If you worked you got to eat. If you got lucky, maybe a bottle of muscatel and an hour with one of Bob the Great Host’s assistants. If not, you went without.

Supporting the sponsors was all well and fine if you already had a pile of ducats. Hobart didn’t. He didn’t have squat and the way he went about things, he wasn’t likely to, ever. It wasn’t for lack of desire, Hobart desired everything he could see and most things he’d only heard about. He didn’t mind working either and would take any position offered.

Hobert's problems always started as soon as he got paid. He woold head for the nearest altar and sacrifice all that he had on food, liquor and women. He was a good parishioner and the local Host of the Congregation of Consumers was always glad to see him.

He stepped out of the cathedral into the mass hysteria of the New Year celebration. Twenty Seventy-Six was going to be a hell of a year in Corporate America.

The Yearning

As it descended, darts of the sun’s burnt red radiance wove across a cloud strewn canvas. The crystal blue of the sky’s canopy faded to old indigo above the cut of the boat landing. Moss draped oaks turned black in the fading light and the voices of frogs and insects crashed on the surface of the sound. Below the bank the mirror of still water reflected the crimson indigo of evening.

Colleen stood in awe of the heavens. The common affairs of the day were in such contrast to the sky’s majesty. She felt isolated in this backwater when what she rally wanted to do was dance.
For her, the red of the evening sun didn’t mark a pleasant time with the day’s work done. For her, it was adventure lost. She’d spent years watching ladies in fine gowns on the arm’s of handsome gentlemen as they stepped out for a evening’s gaiety. Now she was come of age, but the gaiety was gone. There were no more gentlemen. All the gentlemen had all gone to war.
There were no more flashy cars, the restaurants were shuttered, the food rationed. The few letters she had received confirmed that the city was covered in a somber grey mood. It wasn’t the city she remembered. Coming here had at first been an adventure, a holiday. That had been before the attack on Pearl Harbor. The sound and the little cabin were so far away from anything civilized that it had been a week before she knew of the attack.

A week after that her father’s note arrived telling her to stay at the cabin. At the time no one had known what was next. Nearly two years she had spend here now and turned eighteen and then nineteen. The panic of anticipated enemy landings was past but the news was still bad in the already old newspapers that made their way out here.

So what! The world was going to end, this year, next year, in a hundred years, it didn’t matter to her. She wanted to dance, to wear sequins and silk and stroll along Broadway to the shows and clubs.

She hadn’t wanted to think that way, but evening after evening through the turn of seasons she had watched the sun go down and gone to bed thinking about the adventures she’d planned. Out here there was no kerosene and burning candles meant using the little gasoline their ration afforded them to drive to Gainesville to buy more. The few tapers they had they held against emergencies.

For Colleen there was no virtue in hording, she had given most of what she had to help the few families that lived along the sound. The idea of having while others went without was one she couldn’t fathom and she didn’t want to survive, she wanted to dance. She’d dance with el Diablo if she had to, dance on the edge while flames licked at her heels. As the clouds rolled on blood red rays toward a dark horizon she felt a tingle. Her hand lay on the flatness of her stomach and slid down to gently caress her loins. Her eagerness to know that fulfillment itched on her consciousness.

She moved her hand away, crossed her arms under her breasts, but that pressure reminded her even more of the urges she couldn’t satisfy. Her arms fell to her sides as she lengthened her stride along the bank, the evening light faded and the bites of misquotes began to annoy her.
Stopping on the back step, she composed her face so Grace couldn’t see the desire behind her eyes. The light through the kitchen window was faded to grey. The fire in the stove had been allowed to cool and the curtains hung limp in the humid air.

She could hear Gloria as the old woman shuffled about in the bedroom, turning down the covers and doing chores that didn’t need done.

A basin of clear, cool water stood on the stand just inside the screen door. She scooped up handfuls to caress her cheeks and forehead with and watched the droplets fall and disappear back in the miniature pool. Taking up the fresh towel, scented with rose and orange she patted her face dry before moving into the parlor to sit in the deep shadows.

“Good evening Miss Colleen.” Gloria’s soft even tones roused her from her thoughts. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll be retiring now.” The woman had said the same thing every night for as long as Colleen could remember. It was reassuring and irritating at the same time.
“No, I’m fine. Good night Gloria.”

“Good night Miss.”

Colleen sat until the room was full dark and the early stars struggled to light its recesses. She stirred then and moved with sure confidence through the familiar patterns of the small house. In her bedroom she slipped off her shoes and unbuttoned her dress letting it fall to the floor. With a quick flick of one foot she tossed the limp shift into the air and caught it without even glancing to see where it was. She draped it across the back of the chair, then pushed the straps of her slip off of her shoulders and repeated the process.

In brassier and underpants she climbed up on the high mattress and pushed the top sheet away to the foot of the bed. It was October and in the latitudes around Cross Creek, still too warm for covers.

In the dark her hand cupped her breast and she squeezed the nipple until ripples of pain mixed with pleasure ran up and down her spine. She let her imagination wonder through pleasures she didn’t fully understand. Her left hand had drifted down and slowly began to rub over her virgin mound. It was familiar territory. She tried to push away the nun’s guilt as her fingers slipped between her skin and the thin cotton. With slow rhythmic strokes she brought forth her mound, damp and sensitive, the guilt slipped further away, she shuttered and shuttered then fell still. The guilt tried to rush back in, like water in the basin but she ignored it and dreamed of the dance.

The basket under her arm slowly filled with snap beans and okra, these would be the last of this season’s harvest, there were far fewer than there had been just a few weeks ago. What few tomatoes they got now were smaller and few.
Colleen caught a flash from out on the sound, a glimpse of movement. She stopped her inspection of the garden vines to shade her eyes with her free hand.
An Osprey lifted from the surface, a thrashing fish visible in its claws. Diamond strings of water drops trailed away as the black and white wings scooped air and the bird gained altitude. Colleen felt hollow, she wanted to fly, the summer was over and the late autumn grayness was affecting her mood.

Get Rich Quick

I've always gotten a kick from the letters that find their way to my inbox with tales of the finance minister's murder and fortunes hidden away that are mine for helping out. Anyway, here's my version of that letter....

Dear Friend, It is so Big to Meet You ;

Forgive the manner with which I have sought you out. I seek assistance but am short on options and have no other choice. I am a word smith and scribbler from the ancient city of Saint Augustine, Florida. The reason I explain my situation to you is to seek your assistance and contribution to actualize my dream.I am attached to the planet by gravity for the sole purpose of working and supporting a family.

As you may well know, families are always in the process of driving the bread winner to the poor house. As I was already on the way to skid row, I figured I’d become a starving writer in the process. I evaluated the level of destruction I could cause with a word processor and engaged my professional education, without the sound advice of peers.

The work has been risky and challenging, I am sometimes faced with armed insurgents who attempt to steal my words in vicious confrontations of grammar. I’ve lost whole pages in these assaults, really good lines sacrificed to save my skin. Recently a group of verbs and nouns, organized and lead by me, were on patrol. We were alerted to the need of some original word work on the pages of literary row at the intersection of history and the twenty-first century. That long thoroughfare of high-tone novels, drunken Irishmen and far-flung adventure stories had road-blocks built along its crumbling façade, each enclave occupied by well known hacks. Tactical tenses engaged, I proceeded wearily through the hazards to a predetermined site where I encountered even more danger. Literary Row is a killing field for novice writers, and, afraid for my life, the soft parts anyway, I buried a treasure of original words, mean, harsh, funny, loving words, the kind that know no ethics. I presumed to call myself a penman and told my words that they would one day find an audience. They are still there in the cellar of my scribblers mind. I am searching for a reliable and trustworthy person like yourself, to receive, secure and protect these valuable words for me until my assignment in the work-a-day world ends.

I instruct you to keep this highly secret so that we can have the fortune to ourselves. We cannot afford to leave these words buried for long, there is no guarantee that such grit and grunt as they provide will ever come again. I am fully aware of what your thoughts would be next, which is why I do not enclose my picture, but forward instead a sample chapter of “Salt ‘An American Novel’”, nearly complete as well as a short story, “Little Rock Blues”. You can confirm the origins of this personally with me and I assure you, you will receive a healthy portion of treasure. Please feel free to negotiate what you wish your reward to be.
Sincere Regards

Incident in Gran Bay

Along Gran Bay Boulevard they had knocked down the corrugated tin and plywood shack affectionately know as Dick’s Bait and Beer and built houses on sandy fill over the sub-divided marsh.

The developer thought the name Gran Bay gave the suburban access road some class.
Never mind that the new boulevard ended where it met Rufus Road. That was where the well-scrubbed residents roamed the environs around the Shoppes of Smelt Cove. Until last year, those same residents roared through the area as fast as possible, not wanting to breath the rot of fish from the tidal basins or see the hard-scrabble existence of the locals who sat in front of clapboard cabins at the Smelt Cove Inn Motel.

The motel is gone; in its place the strip of shoppe-fronts with fresh paint await the fate of their kind. Smelt Cove was now on the map, a desirable address, where the well scrubbed, well heeled can get away from the bustle of the city. In truth, Smelt Cove had always been on the map, it was just that the well heeled had avoided the mosquito infested bog unless they were slumming, looking to buy pot or illicit sex or wanted to get their ass kicked by one of the bikers that hung out at Dick’s Bait.

Harvey kept looking from the corner of his eye, instead of turning his head. The parking lot was full and his car might go unnoticed. He was sure they would be looking for a gold Buick, or at least a gold car. Along Highway One-Eleven police cruisers streamed in both directions and made excursions up both Gran Bay and Rufus. If he got out of this with his skin, he’d give up drinking. Oh please God.

An ambulance screamed north headed for the hospital, Harvey had no doubt it carried the kid he had hit. He didn’t mean too, but she stepped into the crosswalk and he hadn’t seen her. His speed had carried him past the intersection and when he saw the body in the road he’d panicked. This was a world class ****-up, he was a candidate for mayor and the election was tomorrow. He’d wanted to celebrate and Mona offered the best afternoon of celebration in south bay.

“Sir” Harvey had been so intent on the street activity he hadn’t seen anyone approach. He reacted with a jolt, sat up straight and spun, to face a police officer.

“Who? Me?” Harvey pointed his finger at his own chest.

“Yes, sir, I need to speak to you, could you come with me?”

“What’s this about; I’m waiting for a friend”

“Sir, I’m going to have to insist.”

The officer motioned toward the lot where police cruisers corralled Harvey's Buick. A woman in a floral blouse repeatedly pointed from the car to Harvey.“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, it was an accident.” Harvey couldn’t generate the will to move, he was bolted to the bench as he searched for a logical answer to what had happened. “I, I, I didn’t…” he fell quite as the officer took his elbow and lifted him from the bench.

“Sir, come with me and we’ll have this sorted out in no time.” Harvey knew this wasn’t going to sort out, not now, not ever.

Requirem For A Monkey

The aroma from Angelina’s filled McElroy’s consciousness. A slice of pizza and a beer was all he could think about as he waited for the light to change. The green man flashed and McElroy was in the cross walk, moving at the forefront of the noon migration. Delivery trucks, limousines and taxis, lunch time traffic in the heart of the city.

Exhaust fumes filled in around the plumes of cigarette smoke from the sidewalk cafés. McElroy darted sideways toward the gutter to keep from stopping for a uniformed monkey panhandling at the end of a thin chain. A woman dressed in grimy lederhosen that matched the money’s attire sat on a three legged stool and spun the crank on an organ. Her eye’s appeared closed, as she tugged on the chain to control the little beast’s range. McElroy had already veered into the street when she yanked the tether back.

As McElroy’s foot touched down, a horn blared in his ear, brakes protested a prolonged squeal followed by a scream of abject terror. McElroy threw himself forward in a head-first slide and glanced over his shoulder at the source of his panic. A black sedan was up on the sidewalk, headed toward the customers at the outside tables. McElroy wondered who had time to sit and eat. Customers were screaming as they leaped from the car’s path. Chairs, pizza and beer flew everywhere. As the black sedan skidded to a halt, a delivery van, it’s doors emblazoned with winged silver shoes slammed into the car’s rear bumper and shoved it through Angelina’s front window. McElroy’s heart pounded as he stood up the block from Angelina’s, his hunger in momentary remission.

Steam from the van’s radiator formed a cloud between the two vehicles as the car’s driver jumped from his seat and began to scream obscenities at the van’s driver. The door of the van opened slowly the driver a tall broad black man emerged and stood over the car’s operator. The customer’s whose pizza and beer were mingled with the dripping radiator fluid, got into the fray as they screamed in indignation over their interrupted lunch. The driver of the car, a young man in a good suite, too busy dealing with the van driver to care, extended his left arm back toward the crowd and shot his middle finger into the air. Infuriated, the diners and a throng of onlookers increased the volume of their protests.

The back of the gathering on the sidewalk started to push forward for a better view and one of the people in the front row stumbled forward and fell into the car’s driver. The young man, propelled from behind, was thrown off balance and put up his hands to keep himself from falling. He braced himself and pushed into the bigger man’s chest with open palms. The big man stumbled in response, and moved one foot to brace his stance, as he did he stepped on the monkey’s tail. The monkey shrieked and bit at the nearest thing it could find, which was the young man’s ankle. Now the smaller man struck hard on the van driver’s chest with his open hands to push himself away from the pain. The big man, incised with such an intrusion, grabbed the lapels of the guy’s suit coat, snatched him from the ground and hurled him backward into the crowd.

The monkey, excited and scared ran to the top of the van and leaped toward the awning that hung askew from above Angelina’s shattered storefront. In the heart of the disgruntled mob on the sidewalk a fist flew, followed by another, as a herd mentality took over, more fists, curses and feet flew. The monkey missed the awning and landed on a woman’s head, she grabbed at it’s legs to pull it off, but the monkey, in a blind panic bit into her finger before the woman flung the little beast over the van into the street.

A pack of marauding curs watched the monkey’s flight and bayed their pursuit in an off-key babble with the horns from the snarled traffic. A chair flew over the mob and through the windshield of the sedan.

From every direction the sound of sirens converged on Angelina’s. McElroy, edged around the back of the mêlée, stepped through the empty window frame into the now patron-less lunch counter. Angelina’s staff was nowhere to be seen. The only ones he could see flung their fists and legs with all the rest of the beasts. McElroy leaned over the counter, filled a pitcher of beer from the tap and shoved a slice of pepperoni in his mouth, washing it down with a deep gulp of the cold beer. He was on his third slice when the first police cruiser slid to a stop in the street. McElroy tilted the pitcher back and emptied it as he stepped out through the broken window.

The sirens finally got the brawlers attention and people scattered every-which-way. Marvin, the owner of Angelina’s, ran up and started screaming at the arriving officers to arrest somebody. The whole episode got ten seconds on the evening news. McElroy saw himself on film observing the commotion as he calmly ate his free lunch. The camera that captured the fracas should have been focused on the intersection, but the light pole it was mounted on had been struck in the multi-vehicle collision twisting the lens to capture the lunch time excitement.
No one died in the incident, except for the monkey, who had been mauled by the pack of dogs and had to be destroyed. The big news at six P.M was that Frost’s Jewelry at Broadway and Thirty-Third had been emptied of its entire inventory and no one had seen a thing.

Walter's Lament (In consideration of Cronkite)

Marilyn’s dead and nothing will bring those Monroes back! Mitch Miller's red blazer and goatee transformed him into a devilish vision of a Victorian cigar salesman or vice versa. Sing along with the rest of the demons, live tonight, right after this.

The commercial faded and there was Cronkite waiting patently, the footage shifts the color television in the darkened room focuses the space before it with Technicolor highlights of U.S. personnel as they bear an injured Marine across the retinas of anyone watching. In black-and-white the commentators in their broadcast wisdom rearrange the audience’s perception to render the images biased.

“Tune in Lawrence Welk later tonight, when the orchestra is joined by the June Taylor Dancers and the Lemmon Sisters. The announcer’s delivery is coarser than Huntley’s and annoyingly loud, the television’s automatic elevation in volume intended to attract those lulled into a narcotic existence by the data dump of the nightly news. Brinkley and the boys are beholden to no censorship worthy of license, they drone on, knowing not what harm they may do to inquisitive young minds.

Dancers in sequined fishnets and stiletto heels have got the boy’s attention, flashing crotches of smiling beauties peg him as a menace to virginity and celibacy, to decency and quite possibly wisdom, for the boy is coarse and profane.

What good would it do to encourage the child when there is no good can come of it, no altering the course he’s set. Lenny Bruce, Woody Guthrie, Truman Capote and Edger Bergin mix it up in the stock yards as Satisfaction ruptures the diaphragms that ring the stage to drown out the ruckus.

What came of Buddy Holly’s crash when all the good died young. Hunter found it lacking and checked his bags for a seat next to Cobain on the flight to oblivion. Roads not shared though both travel the fault meridian.