A SPONTANEOUS SMILE appears. He embraces the familiar sensation as it forms on his face. The smile is elicited by music coming from the next room, unmistakably played on his own guitar. Protocol would be to ask for permission, but the technique indicates a musician he trusts. The sonority of this instrument heard from a space apart is an oddly private delight. He examines other faces in the room. Nobody else gets it.

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“BUBBLEBATH?” IS all she can think of to say. Finding her soaking in the bathtub fully clothed, her husband had asked: “Did you forget something Hon?” Water sloshes to the floor as she sits up. Giving him a wink and an addled grin, she shrugs and offers: “I think it’s under the sink. Can you help a girl out?” Both smile, searching the other’s face for clues. Neither knows what the hell is going on or what to do next.

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GEOFF IS ALLERGIC to irony, which is ironic and makes him sick to his stomach. Gladys is oblivious to irony. Geoff often has to explain to her what is causing his discomfort. This only makes things worse. Ironically, Gladys is the only woman who will put up with his affliction. Geoff would gladly pay just to see Gladys’ smile. The best thing in his life is when she smiles at him. He gets hives just thinking about it!

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ATTACKED BY CHUPACABRA? Duane knows it’s more likely he’ll be impaled by unicorns. But, you don’t get to choose your phobias. He’s caught out after dark. The familiar hike across the pasture turns into a blind, uncertain stumble. He can’t shake the feeling he’s being stalked by mythical, blood sucking predators. “Can it get any worse than this?” he thinks. It does. He trips and falls full frontal onto fresh cow pies.

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GRAVITY IS Bob’s friend, especially during the holidays. It literally rains groceries. For days debris drizzles from frantic feast preparation. The key phrase is: “Ah! The dog’ll get it.” That’s Bob’s cue to dig in. The monsoon begins on the day. Morsels are his for the mooching as guests arrive. Entire plate loads sometimes tumble down. Bob may get half heartedly shooed away, but stays on the job. “What a good boy!”

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THE CLOSET door always sticks. Opening it requires a determined yank and a stumbling step backwards. At the same moment, shrieking voices send a jolt of terror through her, followed by a horrific chill of confusion and anger as she realizes her husband and her best friend are huddled naked on the closet floor. It takes a moment to sink in, but the perfect line jumps to mind: “Blanch!” she yells. “I have to! But you?”

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MOUNTAIN GORILLAS are only a few yards away, menacing towards him like Hell’s Angels at Altamont. A wailing ape baby gestures towards him in alarm. The enclosing glass of the exhibit is looking flimsier by the second. “My God!” he whispers. Edging away, he takes off his hat. And, it’s over. Returning to their bored existence, the primates shrug. Slam dunking it in the trash he knows: “Wow! They really hate this hat!”

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DRINKING ZOMBIES until 3 am seemed like a good idea at the time, especially fun dressed up like a zombie. But the morning after, a rum hangover was the least of it. He’d passed out for the night in costume. Painfully removing the face paint revealed swollen eyes and ugly red blotches. The receptionist at work greeted him with: “Jeezus Blake, you look like a zombie!” All he could do is moan: “Trick or freakin’ treat.”

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BUCKIN’ BALES isn’t the easiest summer job. It has its’ moments though. As our hay truck pulls up to Myer’s barn, we see an older guy pounding a two handled post hole digger into the ground. His suit coat and tie removed, vest unbuttoned, he is trashing the wing tips. In an open convertible is a very beautiful and pissed off blond gal. Monte sums it up: “Hard times in the banking industry. Let’s get to work fellers.”

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FAWN KNUTSEN’s naked silhouette in the doorway, briefly illuminated in backlight by sunbeams penetrating her thin calico dress, sends Bronski into limbo. The cheap brown liquor burns, but he dares not swallow, nor lower the smudged empty glass from his lips. As Fawn promenades across the soft neon glow of Large Lena’s Ka-Boom Room towards him, their eyes entwine. With a spit take, Bronski collapses akimbo in rapture.

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OUR LONG trek through the dense jungle pays off. We arrive undetected at a bluff overlooking the insurgent’s encampment. There appears to be only two possible paths to reach our adversary’s position. Corporal Swank discovers a third approach: leaning out too far, plunging 120 feet and landing face first in the rebel’s latrine area. They seem really surprised. But, Lieutenant Chang says that isn’t what we had in mind.

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“HELLO, THIS is Leonard.” The loud voice is from the next stall. Always irritating. But, as Leonard continues his lengthy cell phone conversation, it strikes Adam how the echoing old marble of the courthouse restroom really conveys a powerful tone of authority. “I am the great,” Adam shouts, “and . . . all powerful . . . Wizard of Oz!” A short silence follows. Then, a low whisper: “I’ll have to call you back, Nancy.”

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BEING ONE with the universe is a lot of effort. The floor is never comfortable. Assuming lotus position involves a lot of groaning and grimacing. Breath control and the vague “centering” thing only enforces awareness of discomfort. But, repeating a mantra he slowly drifts, concentrating on the smell of incense and soothing raga music. Then, a soft tap at the door. “What the fuck do you want? I’m God damn meditating!”

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HE’D CAREFULLY placed hundreds of small plastic army men and equipment on the dirt pile in the garden. The boy sat engrossed in throwing dirt clods, knocking down emplacements and making explosion noises when he felt Bob’s warm urine running down his back. The kid screamed, turning in time to see Bob’s wagging tail receding across the yard. It wasn’t until years later that the boy realized the wisdom of that old dog.

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A BATHROOM writer, that’s what he is. Every imaginable reference book is neatly arranged on shelves within easy reach of the commode. He hardly ever feels the need to refer to them. There is internet access on the Apple computer. Monitor, keyboard and mouse are set up on a custom made desk. Although it limits his productivity, he insists: “I never write anything that I can’t finish in the course of a bowel movement.”

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PANHANDLING THE plumbing aisle at Home Depot is a round figured young woman wearing no makeup, short cropped hair and men’s clothing. “Excuse me sir,” she says in an indeterminate Hollywood foreign accent, extending a piece of paper. I scan something about “Russia” and “Unification Church.” I’m remembering young women soliciting for Rev. Sun Myung Moon, from before she was born. She has no idea. “No,” I say politely.

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THE WEIRD part, aside from the sight of a swine floating outside his ninth floor office window, is he recognizes the glaring pig! His mind races back to a pot bellied pet with a heart shaped spot on its’ forehead. It was rooting around her apartment during his one nighter with . . . what was her name? He panics! “Pinky! I’ll call her!” he sobs. (What is her freakin’ name?) “Honestly Pinky! I swear I’m going to call!”

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“SMACKS OF Deus ex machina” is the only comment on the paper. That and a “D” circled for emphasis. I have to look it up. It apparently has something to do with the intervention of God, supernatural forces or dumb luck as a plot device. OK. Now, I know the rules. H.G. Wells suggested writers consider something out of the ordinary such as “if pigs could fly” as a story line. Apparently, he didn’t know the rules either.

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THE ARGUMENT is going nowhere. He yells and gestures wildly. Settling to the floor into a lotus position, she centers herself and focuses. She extends her right arm, hand palm up. As Volume VI of The Oxford English Dictionary levitates from the shelf, he stops and gapes. She smiles and drops her arm. The book rockets across the room and impacts his forehead. It is a consciousness altering experience for both of them.

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SHE LEFT him a note which reads: “You know I’ll always love you. I just don’t want to be married anymore. I’ll come for my finches when I get settled.” He surveys the few pieces of furniture left behind. Too worn for her to purloin, he guesses. He checks the back bedrooms. No furniture, but at least his guitars are still there. The moment is serenaded by her damn squeaky birds! “Cheep you assholes! Cheep!” he groans.

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BOB EAGERLY crawls out of the lake. Head to tail an explosion of water blossoms. Man cringes and curses, but continues to laugh and flourish a funny pole. Bob yelps, wags his tail and circles Man in excitement. Something big breaks the surface of the lake. A strange stillness grips Bob. Man nets the monster and holds the wiggling behemoth up for Bob to see. Bob does not go back into the lake that day, nor ever again.

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CANDY IS in her hand poised over the waiting bag, further action bunged by the thought: “Wow! That’s some creepy kid!” Bundled in thick dark clothing against the Autumn chill, the only costume is a transparent plastic mask. It looks like Bob Hope or perhaps Al Capone. With every hot labored breath condensation pulsates on the underside of the façade. She hears a muffled “Tricky Treat!” And, candy is in her hand . . .

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A MIASMA of reefer, tobacco and dust hangs in the room mingled with aromas of leather, liquor, body odor and perfume. The crowd carouses and grunts unintelligibly. Distractions. Sense memories mingle with the moment. He adjusts the familiar weight of the shoulder strap. Amplifiers softly hum and emit a burnt ozoney smell. Red power lights twinkle. He hits the first chord. Music is the mantra. He whirls into a trance.

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FLOATING THREE feet off the ground is not much of a super power. For the first few months, he enjoyed the weightless sensation of hovering and the all the attention it brings. But now in dreams, Don soars much higher. He always carries a flashlight to signal airplanes in case it happens. “They would think I was a UFO,” he says. “Then, they’d see a man standing by a cloud. I would love to see the look on their faces!”

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Done

When the evolution comes
we will walk upright,
use oppositional thumbs,
learn to fly a kite.
And when the evolution
is finally won,
we’ll seek obliteration
with the next big gun.

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Russian Dynamite Trick
(for Dennis Hooper)

Meet me down at the speedway Sunday.
I will apologize.
If you don’t know I’m a changed man darlin’
then you’re in for a big surprise.
I will surely gain your attention.
I will give your karma a kick.
So please be on time.
I will blow your mind
with that Old Russian Dynamite Trick!

You put explosives out in a circle
and pray the laws of physics will apply.
You might say it’s a crazy way to live.
I say it’d be a messy way to die.
For I will sit down there in the middle
and I will light those candle sticks.
So please be on time.
I will blow your mind
with that Old Russian Dynamite Trick!

Woke up naked in Mazatlán
with psilocybin on my brain.
It’s just the kind of lifestyle
that seems to cause you so much pain.
Well that ain’t right,
but come Sunday night
you will see that I have done my time.
You’ll know I have reformed
as I perform
that Old Russian Dynamite Trick!

Meet me down at the speedway Sunday.
I will apologize.
If you don’t know I’m a changed man darlin’
then you’re in for a big surprise.
I will surely gain your attention.
I will give your karma a kick.
So please be on time.
I will blow your mind
with that Old Russian Dynamite Trick!
Be on time.
I will blow your mind
with that Old Russian Dynamite Trick!

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Zen Koans and Reality Television

You know, a lot of time was spent under the Bo-tree meditating. Anybody who has tried anything along these lines knows that the focus on enlightenment tends to be a transitory state. The mind tends to wander to some pretty strange areas.

I’m pretty sure that Siddhartha spent at least some time early on thinking about interior design. So, when I heard somebody on one of those home renovation television shows talking about wanting a “Zen” feel to their family/exercise room, all I could think was “why the hell not!”

In his Bodhisattva years, I don’t suppose that the Buddha talked a lot about enlightened interior design. But, I’m sure if and when any of his pupils asked about it, he had a pretty coherent answer at the ready.

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The Meaning of Life:

My greatest personal aspiration is to abandon fear and anger, and embrace love on a continuing basis. I suppose it’s just as transitory as the pursuit of wealth, fame, or sex. But hey man, you are what you eat.

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Be My Valentine:

I’m going to need you
to be my Valentine
again this year.
You’ve been my Valentine
for many years darlin’
and it’s been great!

If you can see a way
to be my Valentine
just one more time
I’ll be the luckiest
guy in the universe
again this year.

There’s not enough room on
a candy heart to state
how much I need
your Valentine’s day love.
I’m still nuts about you babe.
What do you say?

I will try to be the
all time best Valentine
there’ll ever be.
If you can see a way
to be my Valentine
again this year.

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What I Learned Through Suffering:

That which does not kill you makes you really tired, achy all over and extremely cranky!

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