Charm Of A Ratdog

On the way out of town I pulled into the rundown Phillips at the top of the hill and filled the tank and bought a shrinkwrapped hoagie. The chocolate chip cookies in the case looked good but when the clerk dropped one in a bag it rang like a stone. I said you got coffee? He shrugged. He was a skinny kid with the charm of a ratdog and weak whiteboy dreads. Wide strips of pale scalp stretched tight and painful looking. I said can you nod? His eyes got smaller. What? I said nevermind. The pot was a third full. It smelled like last week’s but it’d do to dunk the cookie. I said you got napkins? He was reading the Times. He didn’t look up. Under the hotdogs. I took more than I needed. You never have too many. He’d been reading the help wanteds. He said you got thirty? I said yeah. He made change. It wasn’t much. I shouldered the door open holding my coffee so it wouldn’t spill and went out. A semi blew by, jake brake bellowing. Gearing down late for the hill.

Torn-Out Pages

We had a place on Erie Avenue, two rooms full of records, mixtapes, books. Dominique’s baby grand she’d found at a house sale, the Martin flattop I played on No True Names. I kept it under my bed in a hardcase.  You don’t take a guitar like that on the road.  We were out that summer with Concrete Blonde, we'd just played South by Southwest when my cousin called, said Dee’s piano was down on the sidewalk. Our stuff piled around it, people taking what they wanted. No eviction notice, nothing.  Or maybe there was and it just got by us. A lotta shit got by us, those years.  He called friends, found a truck, but by the time they got there anything we cared about was gone. You've just played the biggest show of your life, you come offstage, and somebody says uh, listen. I hate to tell you this, but… 

Dee said for her the worst part was her notebooks. She always kept one with her, she was always writing‒ She told Rolling Stone writing through shit was how she dealt with life.  She had 'em back to junior high, all her journals, poems, songs, sketches‒ I remember one notebook, it was all just titles.  Somebody’s got ‘em‒ You can still go on eBay, find torn-out pages: Her sketches for the No True Names cover, her See-Through Smile lyrics.  You know she wrote that when she was fifteen?  You believe that? 

I got an email from a girl who said she saw us nine times that summer, we stayed at her house once.  She's a lawyer now.  She wants to go after 'em, whoever's sellin' off Dee's notebooks.  I said nah.  Dee's gone, she doesn't care.  She asked if I remembered her.  The lawyer, I mean.  I said sure. 

Deliverance

My tiny story 'Deliverance' is included in the April issue of Fat City Review.

Lean On Me

Some aspiring street artist had bombed a splashy nurse with a horse hypo on Mother Mary’s door.  I pushed the button, leaned on the railing.  There was little resemblance.  The signature was elaborate.  I couldn’t read it.  The door opened a few inches.  A thick graying shirtless black man said what do you need. 

I said probably stitches.  I took a header. 

He said show me. 

I took Suzy’s hat off. 

You fucked up? 

I said no.  Just a little dizzy. 

She know you? 

I said yeah.  Mickey Houghton. 

He nodded noncommittally.  Wait out here.

Rain dripped from a leaking seam in the awning, a corroded lightfixture.  Its brightness hurt my eyes.  Looking down made me dizzier.  I held onto the railing.  A cat squeezed under the tall narrow gate between the houses, hurried down the alley.  A dog barked.  The door opened.  She was barefoot in a blue robe.  Her face shiny.  Older.  She’d got bifocals.   
 
I said sorry I got you outta bed. 

What I live for.  What’s goin’ on. 

I let go the railing with one hand, worked at Dave’s bandana.  I was told I might need stitches. 

Leave it.  By who. 

Lady gimme a ride.   

Behind her the man said he come drivin’ that blue shitbox.  I saw him get out.  Wasn’t anybody with him. 

I said the ride was before.  Long story.

Always is.  I’ll see him.  She turned away.

He said you carryin’ a needle, tell me now.  I get stuck, your head’ll be the least of it. 

I said no needles.  I’m just a pothead. 

He said yeah you look it.  You make it?  Wait.  Here.  Lean on me. 

Small Good Things

Yesterday was a horror. I’d been a little concerned that someone might attempt an incident at an opening of The Hobbit somewhere. I never imagined anything like this massacre of children. A day ago it was unthinkable. Now it’s not. What’s next. God help us.

That’s not a figure of speech. It’s a fervent prayer.

Yesterday was the kind of day that makes those of us who are artists, writers, etc question the worth of our work. Me, anyway. Whatever tiny bits of art or entertainment I might contribute to the world seem insignificant, useless in the face of this kind of darkness. But this morning it seems to me that trying to make something beautiful or calming or inspiring of wonderment or whatever- all those things I try for- is more important than ever. So many people seem bent on darkness. Me I like light. I can make only little tiny bits. I’ve no illusions of great import. But we must keep trying to make what we can. If we despair, if we stop, darkness wins. Can’t allow that.

If you believe in prayer, keep all those who’re grieving and devastated in yours. Most of us will get on with our lives today. I’m grateful for mine this morning, for all the small good things. Because days like yesterday remind us: No good thing is small. And the big ones: No one’s shot me. No one’s shot a child or a woman I love. I’ve been given another day to do what I will with. Likely no big thing. But however small, I’m going to do something good.

Stratissimo

It was a grand sendoff, the last Wrong Turn show, the night Randy left to join Megadeth. Word was out he’d got the call and Myhalyk’s was packed, they’d stopped letting people in. Halfway through Little Wing a bouncer cleared a path for a darkhaired girl in a long leather coat unbuttoned and trailing a belt. Somehow nobody stepped on it. She was unapologetic and intent and her Nikon was worth more than my car. Down front the bouncer put her on his shoulders and she started shooting Randy. Her flash fired the houselights, made the lightshow arrhythmic. I wondered who she was.

Google Randy, Myhalyk’s, you’ll find a cellphone video. Milling darkness, a boy’s voice: Fuck I dropped it. Train yells annnd now, lights come up, it’s all Randy. His night, his solo, and he puts on a clinic: Blinding sweep-picking, sweet fluid phrasing, squealing harmonics, screaming bends. Unstrapping, laying his guitar on the stage for the tapped piece he called Stratissimo: Randy on all fours, attacking his scarred Strat like a Steinway baby grand. Down front, a girl on someone’s shoulders, hunched over a camera. Lights flash. Flash. Flash.

Bron-yr-Aur

Happy to have my little story 'Bron-yr-Aur' in Metazen today. 

Small Truths

Happy to have my poem 'Small Truths' included in the new issue of Scissors and Spackle. My thanks to editors Jenny Catlin and Matt Schmid.

Brushstrokes

That night I dreamt of Grace.  We picked blueberries, filled a rusty paintcan.  She was quiet but she laughed for me.  Some part of me knew she shouldn’t be there and I asked how long she could stay.  She said it’s you who can’t stay.  You’ve people need you.  I said nobody needs me.  I miss you, Gracie.  She said I know.  I’m here.  I said no you’re not.  She looked away.  I said I’m sorry.  She smiled a little.  For what? 

On the way back we came to a stone wall.  I said I don’t remember this.  She said you came the other way.  Remember?  I said what?  She’d climbed over easily.  She said it’s gonna rain.  I looked back.  The sky was a big Steven Sadler painting I’d seen in Smythe Gallery once.  Greens and grays and darks massing and foreboding.  A small figure looking back from one edge.  There was no wall.  I couldn’t find Grace.  I bent close, called her name.  She didn’t answer.  I’d dropped the paintcan.  The berries had spilled.  I knelt, picked at brushstrokes.  A thorn pricked my finger.  Somewhere a phone was ringing.  It was mine.  

Last Chance

Happy to have a cheery little poem, Last Chance, in one of my favorite journals, Right Hand Pointing. Thanks, Dale!

Tips From The Lucid Dreamer's Handbook

From The Lucid Dreamer's Handbook (page 44): 'Enter scenes as late as possible. If they conclude without your intervention, so much the better. TIP: Not all the old doors are sealed.'

Updated Bio

'Mark Reep is a faded Polaroid taped to the only unbroken window of an abanoned house in Ithaca, New York.  Mark affects unconcern with protocols, and was last seen wearing a T-shirt that said FUCK PLANNING.  His current whereabouts are unknown.'

Merciful Dark

A truck had just pulled out from the well and I followed it up through the woods past the merciful dark of Augie’s house.  I hadn’t been farther up Barlow Hill since the year I quit 84 Lumber.  You learn the back roads driving a delivery truck.  Then you forget.  Dark and raining doesn’t help.  The road climbed steadily.  One-sided trees leaned in.  Ahead brakelights flashed and bobbed like the truck had run over something.  I slowed. Runoff had strewn stones, debris across the road.  I geared down, eased over.  When I looked up the truck was gone.  

At the top of the hill the woods ended.  Wide rolling fields fell away into night.  Ahead a tall hedgerow, buckets hung from sugar maples.  A Bobcat loader, stacks of blocky shapes defining as pallets of fieldstone wrapped in chickenwire.  Remains of a wall older than the trees, picked for three hundred dollars a ton.  The stones didn’t care.  Why should I.    

How To Profit As Copper Becomes The New Gold

My story How To Profit As Copper Becomes The New Gold is up at Left Hand Waving. My thanks to editors Dale, Howie, and John.

Point of Grace

My drawing & text piece(s) 'Point of Grace' at A-Minor. My thanks to editor Nicolette Wong.

A Woman Walks Into A Bar

My story A Woman Walks Into A Bar is up at The Camel Saloon. My thanks to editor and barkeep Russell Streur.

Angie and Twitch

The girl singer Angie was hot. She was maybe twenty-five and ignored the crew or tried to. More on this later. The guy singer was older. It wasn’t like we were knowledgeable fans of the Sammy Kaye Orchestra but you figured he’d been with them awhile. Maybe when Sammy was still alive. The guy singer wasn’t badlooking but he had a bad eyetic. It scrunched up the whole left side of his face in a big exaggerated wink. It fucked with his phrasing. I didn’t know his name. We called him Twitch.

So Few Dreams

A new poem, So Few Dreams, is up at Orion headless. My thanks to editor Sara Fitzpatrick Comito.

Doctor Eyepatch

With apologies to Tim Etchells, whose Dictionary is otherwise most comprehensive, and should be on every dreamer's nightstand:

"Waking, Sarah consults the Dream Dictionary, but no entry explains the doctor’s eyepatch. That contraption he’d invited her to pedal though, somebody oughta market one of those. The closer you got the harder it got, and her feet kept slipping off the pedals. It was maddening."

Read the rest of my flash 'Doctor Eyepatch' at Postcard Stories.

Tim O'Brien

"The purpose of writing is to enhance mystery, not solve it."

-Tim O'Brien, 1991, from the Artful Dodge interviews archive. Read it here.