POEMS

-QUAZI-

I'm a meloncholy midnight
Shadowy candle light
Poet with poor sight
I have no meter, just ryhme
With plenty of time
For me to kill
Longing to fill
My demeaning dog days
So, I write clichés
Of my dismays
I've had my own fair
And unreasonable share
Of dismal despair
I'm a rightly distort
And well thought
Quazi-intellectual
In a permanently perpetual
Ranting state
Of raving irate
Absentmindedness
Bent on finding bliss

 A POEM
A poem to ease the mind 
And leave behind 
This disease of mine
Oh what a teasing find
To deceive the mind
Too late to seize the time
Once I release my mind
And relieve the bind
It's ease I find

BLUE

Clear cloudless skies

Bright brilliant eyes

Songs of suede shoes

Bright Stones on rings

The light dawn brings

Kid’s cartoon dog’s clues

Jeans and t-shirts

Short mini-skirts

Best Selling Book covers

The gills of a bass

Windows of stained glass

Two poisoned star crossed lovers

Shot glasses in strip bars

Night’s twinkling stars

Painter’s tape

Batman’s cape

Frozen popsicle otters

Dried paints on brush

Feeling that are hush

Singer Muddy Waters

Stand Firm

He Said She Said
That’s how this all spread
Pretending to be truth conveyers
Rather more like soothsayers
Aspirations lay dead
While egos are feed
Farmers sewing rumors
To nourish savage consumers
Which, needs be put to bed
And disavowed beliefs shed
By the average nay wavier
With dismayed behavior
Brings this to a horrible head
The most import words often go unsaid
This is how words whisk-fully travel
More sizzling than summer gravel
Where ugliness is brisk-fully breed
And lightly morals must tread
While others hide behind their lies
One must rely on truths as alibies
So, stand firm while others have fled
Just remember this Instead
The news is always free
Where you get it is key

DEFEAT
Not rotten just spoiled
By personal vices
And self-made devices
That are well oiled
I'm splitting hairs
And repairing rips and tears
My blood is boiled
With piss and vinegar
The period with no integer
The equation uncoiled
Life's little riddle
Trapped in the middle
And oh how I've toiled
With the endless solution
My blood the pollution
For my body is soiled
And completely muddled
Words and thoughts befuddled
For once I am not foiled.

SHORT STORIES

THAT DARK NIGHT

Prior to the events of that night he was just a normal guy. A man like any other, that if you were to pass on the street you would think nothing of, but after that night you could see it in his eyes, that he was forever changed. He was not the same man he was anymore. His friends often called, even his best friend frequently tried hailing him, with no response. He became distant, purposefully. 

His brother back home pleaded with him to visit, “…could you come out the next month, then?”

He replied, “Sorry.”

His brother pressed on, “Perhaps you could travel the globe, you know, on a getaway.”

softly he said, “Get away, from what?”

Instead he sold the house, quit his job, and fell off of the map.

Everything was freezing in these walls of pored cement lined with steel. Now in his ice palace, locked away in his personal fortress of solitude he slept with ease, even as the walls shook from echoing thunder as rain leaked through the smallest of the tiny cell’s cracks. At night he slept deep and sound, while other howled. He dreamt of her, Rebecca, her soft smile and long fare hair and how she hated when it would drift into her face, her beautiful face. He dreamt of Max and his bright blue eyes so innocent and sweet. Little Max with his big ponderous questions that often stumped him; he lives his life that once was now only to be in dreams. Every day he wakes to find himself alone, in a small unfamiliar place.

He is trying to find a way home.

That dark night, the road was not slick, the rain was not falling, and the night was still unlike any other. It was stiller than most nights that time of the year. He had had a long day and let Rebecca drive. Little Max all tuckered out in the back with a long day of preschool followed by soccer practice. It was a normal night like any other before it but one thing differed from the rest. That reckless boozed up basturd was also on that road.

Guilty.

Something which he did not possess was guilt, especially not for the victim. The victim, what a joke, a pun to be played out as wit slowly expires on the stage life’s infinite comedy. Not for the bloodshed, that crimson river of life, but for the one fleeting moment when it was done, the deed complete, did he feel anything once more. What he felt was accomplishment. Only when he knew the Basturd’s heart stopped beating did he again feel his own pulsing beneath his chest.

One’s conscience had never been clearer, he’s was crystal.

The sun had just begun to rise when he left the basturd, bled out just as Rebecca. Eleven blocks he walked covered in blood that was not his own. Painted from head to toe. The sun shone strong and full, his shadow was cast long and tall as he strolled to the station. He entered the precinct to awes, he stepped over to the desk and put his hands out in front of him.

He said in a calm voice to the officer, “Arrest me, I killed the Basturd.”

He was trapped and he could not move, he push, he pulled, struggled to break free. Stuck, his right leg pinned. His mouth tasted of copper; he could not reach him. He could not reach Max, whose eyes lay open. Rebecca was there, she was still with him. He could only grasp her shoulder with the three unbroken fingers of his left hand as she slowly bled out of her chest and mouth and ears. He watched her with his unblinking eyes as they tiered over, he watched her last gasp. He lost everything he had just before he lost consciousness.

The wretched Basturd’s blood was still warm upon his hands as he sat in that wood paneled room in a pressed suit and neatly folded double Windsor knotted tie. Without a hint of remorse he felt a millions eyes fixated on him. The corruption of the life blood of society, said the man dressed in night that dulls out death like a Pez dispenser.  The lens of the omnipresent eyes of the world lay upon him to cast judgment as the beast up on high with his grim reaper robes and breathe of decay uttered the words of demise. 

He now had an exact expiration date.

He found it was not as hard for someone with no police background to find and track some else’s whereabouts. He quickly filled the roll of predator stalking his prey. The Basturd lived close to close and it haunted him. It haunted his dreams and his waking life. The date had been decided and he could not defer from the deed at hand for he was determined. His nerves where steady, when he greeted the basturd in the bar. Booze being the chosen vice; he chose bourbon to soft the liver before slicing into it with a sliver of stainless steel. He drug him to his car, he was strong enough to carry him but thought this was a better mode of transportation. He threw the bleeding basturd into the back. 

The courts saw it as retribution but unjust by law. The churches saw it as vengeance but unholy in god’s eyes. The press called it revenge but too brutal of a slaying. He saw it as fit. In his eyes the scales of justice were again balanced. The body was found stabbed seventy two times in the face, neck and torso.

His life was now forfeit.

The chair was cold, the room was snow and the stares were of ice but he was not. Like a wildfire on a winter night he was ablaze. He remembered her face her eyes as she slipped, and Max’s little hands covered in blood.  The leather around his chest tightened to where he almost could not breathe and it was at that moment that he felt the sting of freedom in his right forearm and the warmth that followed, rushing steadily through his veins.

Quietly he whispered, “I’m coming home.”

_______________________________________________________ _____ _____ _____ _____

Guy Walks into a Led Bar

Last Night I inadvertently traveled to 1466 and I found myself in Germany in a little town called Mainz, or so the hand carved wooden sign post read. My German is terrible if not non-existent. Yet I found myself able to communicate just find with the locals. I wandered through the small sodden streets and stumbled pass the rumble of little homes and shops kicked a store sign that read 'Fust and Schoeffer'. I peeked into the shattered window and saw a collapsed roof and heaps of twisted metal, some old singed leather bible covers. I reached down and found a raised lowercase g on a metal block.

Some kids were kicking a deflated leather ball around the street as snow started to fall and I found myself without a winter's coat. Still wearing my pajamas and hoodie, I often sleep in. That's when I was startled by the figure leaning against the building only but a few feet away from where I stood. Having not noticed him before.

I said “Hello.”

The old man who smoked a pipe and said “That the lowercase g can be a real son of a bitch when it comes to durability.” as I tucked it in my pocket.

He itched at his long scruffy bearded face that lit up like a sunrise with the strike of a match. He was not so old after all just weathered and worn thin from many unkind years.

He said “That place could really sing when the presses were going.”

He sighed and cover the bowl with his thumb while his pipe roared its last drag with a slight whistle; a death rattle. He emptied his pipe on the side of the structure, then invited me to a local watering hole. I accepted and offer my hand stating my name he shook mine.

he replied “Johannes Gutenberg, call me Joh.” he tells me.

The name of the pub roughly translates to scorched earth after a lighting strike, either that or it means urine spot, I hope it's not that latter. The first thing that hit us as we enter the bar was the warmth followed by the gym sock smell, with two fire places burning and about three dozen local folks crammed into such a small space the walls were sweaty. The tables, the chairs, the bar stools and the floorboards all seem to be held just barely together with bent rusty nails and sheer will power. The Bartender nodded to Joh who gestured with two fingers and we headed to a table that was more varnish than wood. The waitress brought us two overflowing pints. Like most Germans he preferred a heavy stout with a strong head and a lot of alcohol to boast. Not unfamiliar to how he likes his women too he joked as the waitress left with a wink and a smile.

Gutenberg pulled out his pipe and packed it clumsily dropping small heaps on the table and floor he haphazardly stuffed the tobacco in and lit a small twig off of the candle on the table. He quickly scooped what was spilled on the table back into his pouch. He puffed out a poof of smoke and then spewed out a cloud as he asked me what kind of woman I like, and if I could afford to loan him some money so we could go to a brothel. I suggested we finish our drinks first. He snorted a laugh and ordered two more beers and a shot of spirits.

After round three he paused and said “It's all my fault that this town got sacked by the church.”

He loved watches ever since he was a young lad. He once took apart his grandfather's. He popped out a silver one with well polished faces. He boasted about how it has it has 12 complications and one thousand one hundred and thirty two parts. He opened the face it told the time but also the time in Paris, London and Rome. It had the date day and denoted am or pm, Then he closed the face flipped it and opened the back reveling a full calendar and lunar calendar as well. His grandfather's watch came apart easy enough it was a simple movement meaning it only displayed the time, putting back together took him about ten years much to his grandfather's dismay.

A couple of broad shouldered chaps are getting loud on the other end of the pub. I can feel my toes again and my hands are not as numb as they were. This place is cozy once you have a couple drinks in you. I look over at Joh and he is standing.

“We gotta go now.” Joh puts his hand on my left arm. A glass bottle goes flying by my face and shatters on the wall over my right shoulder. The two me making all the ruckus have now come to blows. Only one punch misses the fellow in the fight and hit an onlooker who in turn joined the fight. The first fellow's friend seeing the unbalance in the fight also joins if only to even the odds. Joh pulls me out of my chair and slams me to the ground up right. I am on my feet like a toddler set down by a parent.

“Come on follow me.'' he gestures as he crawls along the wall, hits the corner and makes a right “This way.” as he sneaks behind the bar.

The bar tender with a tree trunk mustache, knows Joh but grabs me by the collar. I try to explain but he says I am trying to steal liquor when he's not looking. I say I was not but it sounds guilty no matter how I try to say it. Joh puts his hand his shoulder and points at me, so he lets me pass as the Romain Sheriffs come roaring in bashing heads and driving people out.

Joh and I duck into some back alley that is just narrow enough for a a wheel borrow. He hands me a full bottle of gin. I ask him where he got this. He smiles at me confirming he nicked from Mr. Mustache the bar keep while he was accusing me of theft.

“You like girls he asked what kind of girls?” as he swigs the bottle again. “There's this one over on Tallie Road with an caboose like you won't believe, want to go? We should go. Come on follow me.”

Wanting to hear more of his story I agreed. He says it is a bit of a walk but the gin will keep us warm and pass the time.

After sometime of walking and drinking in the frost bitten streets with the snow steady steaming he turns and says “I like you, you don't talk too much do you?”

I shook my head and shrugged.

“I like that..” he then went on to tell me of his early year in Italy and how he loves Italian women they have the most beautiful hair and the biggest bushes. Apparently he's a fan. He then mentioned that he had some bad blood there but wouldn't go into details. He journeyed back home here to Mainez where he missed the food the beer and of course the full figured women. He opened a little shop and make signs and leaflets. Which the latter were a hit. He like all people with a vision and no funding found himself in a room convincing a man with no vision but deep pockets to invest in him when the banks would not. This man said yes, even after many had said no. His name was Fust and his only real stipulation was that he had to give his unemployable son-in-law Schoeffer a job at his print shop. To which he heartily agreed. Anything for a yes and the capital.

The investment had been made, the shop open, but was not yet turning a profit. He could not print fast enough. He was spurned by his dilemma, so he did what he did when he was stressed and wanted to find solace. He took apart and cleaned his pocket watch. When screwing a small piece that helps regulate the date, the part lowed and rose. He would make a press unlike that of his predecessors.

“We take a right here it's only a few more blocks but its worth it when you see her. My Helga she is a sight.” my legs were stiffening the cold seemed to penetrate my bones. I did not dress warm enough.

“The Bible.” he said “was my downfall. I thought I was going to make something that would make me a lot of money and than I could pay off that thief Fust and have my own shop and then I could just print whatever I wanted.” taking the last gulp the bottle was now empty he he slide it into his pocket.

“Like what?” I asked him.

“Girls mostly. I want to, I wanted to just, some tasteful stuff of girls with full bodies and large hips. You know women.” He grinned. “Here we are, we're here.”

So the guy who printed the Bible really wanted to be Larry Flint.

“Where?” I replied, this place was worse looking than the pub, it resembled the Addams family mansion. The bottom floor was a bar and the top floor has all the rooms. We are escorted to a tiny table he asks about Helga but we're told she is busy. He turned in the empty bottle in his coat for credit with the house.

“When the town was sacked this placed was the mayor's house but now it's well where you meet women.”

We take a seat at a small table and were told that the Madame of the house will call upon us shortly. He orders two rounds to get us started again as if we ever stopped.

“Forty two lines.” he swigged “I printed a forty two line Bible” another tap at the bottle “and made so that it could be made quicker than ever before.”

“But why the Bible.” I pondered aloud.

“Don't you ever make decisions based solely on money, the church has all the coin, I print Bibles, they buy them from me and I make lots of money fast.” he sighed and looked away “Except, I got into debt to get started more to stay afloat and by the time the Bible was running at full gallop, it was too late. The blind old crows at the courts ruled that all my machines and my shop belonged to that oaf Fust.” The frustration welled up in his eyes as he pounded his second round down and then started on mine. I was still sipping my first beer normally I'm not much of a drinking for the most part.

“The whole city was roaring and the print shop had travelers coming and going. It gave us independence. The church wanted control but didn't know how so they sent knights who raid the city burned the business and killed dozens. It was all in the name of religion and progress but really just greed and power. It was my fault I know the whole town knew it. They burned my shop not the church, but it wasn't mine anymore I just worked there. And now, now, I print and I print and I print the forty two line Bible over and over again for the church.” He chugged it down. He stared down into his empty bottle as I took in the atmosphere.

“If you want to print girls do it, Don't print the Bible.” He was about to order another round for the table when he blushed and turned redder than a radish.

The Madame of the house came to the table but never sat, she asked Johannes if he had money today or not. To which he said no, and her mouth pucker tight, as I sat starting to count the infinite lines formed on her face by the sight of Joh. He flatters her figure saying he always loved the shape of her hips, and that he will again send his monthly salary from the church to her to cover the charges.

“That's not enough.” she stated firmly.

I am sure we are about to get booted from this brothel so I begin to pound what was left in my first beer bottle. I belch under my breath while they both shoot me a glance that I get from my parents at the dinner table, I quickly apologize. Damage done she hates me now too.

He flatters her establishment and says that he will print another flier for her place and have a local boy of thirteen Hans distribute them in neighboring boroughs. To this she agreed to have his tab wiped clean but only after the fliers are handed out.

The wind cuts in from across the street as we leave the Brothel and chills my face. The snow had finally stopped. As we were walking down the brothels front stairs I noticed the waxing moon lit the clouds from behind in an angelic way filling the sky with a dream like haze when I lost my footing.

My head pounded.

I sat up in my bed one thirty three am, a chill breeze came in from the open window. The room barely lit but the cracked bathroom door with the light still on and an empty German beer bottle lay on my nightstand that I don't remember drinking. Next to me I see my typography textbook with an etching of Johannes Gutenberg. He looks old in the drawing but he was so not old in my dream just aged.

It was just a dream.

I was really thirsty from all that drinking. I decided to get a drink of water and as I walked across the room my little toe kicked something hard and heavy. I cursed loud as is rolled across the floor and stopped in the small sliver of light from the bathroom.

It was a lead block and when I flipped it over found that it was the very same raised letter “g” worn out at the stem. I picked it up in wonderment and gazed back at my textbook and then the German beer...