Another Year, Another Victim

Next Stop: Hell

January 1st, 2013

To be god is everything. It has been three months, two weeks, one day, and four hours. And the rain continues to weather my powers. Our head hurts. Dull and rusty, it is the same razor I’ve been carving myself with for days. The pain; however, fails to escape. The second body was found yesterday. The television said it was difficult to identify. It must be protoplasm in black goo by now. He was as a stick, when it meets vertically with mud, stuck feet first in the flats off Skagg Island next to the freeway. I had wrapped him tightly. I am getting better. I will remove the teeth before I plant the next one. For now, I will sleep. There is much work to do in the morning.

February 29th, 2013

The messenger to told me-never disobey a direct order. Once instructed, to its fruition the task must be carried out. Which can be low-hanging like an individual’s head when in the neutral position? The division of unity or the upright circle from which hangs a profound ignorance is a fact.

March 20th, 2013

Competent imbecilic behavior makes me an efficient drone. Unlike the other worker bees, all five of my eyes are functional. My boss is impressed with my fabricated ignorance but he must be eliminated. His murmuring has reached perfect pitch. He is talking about me, again. I am the alpha and the omega. At lunch I will eat his heart. And his soul will descend by the day’s end.

April 31^st, 2013

It is known that unless the bidding begins at three, the result will be disappointing at best. Rather than jump, the grasshopper slithers like the rainbow slipping behind the mountain so as to never be noticed when the hunger is forced. Living with the sheer is never easy.

May 27^th, 2013

At the barbeque, the meat was tender. I have perfected my technique with muscles and tendons. Brother was foolish to upset me. His teeth were difficult to extract. My envoy to the bliss abyss has arrived. Soon the little death will embrace me.

 September 31^st

As the moons glows beneath the heaven that will hold us, it glows over a Nebraska plain while the California Zephyr delights in itself. Westerly influences speak to long- term change within and the aftermath mixes with excess and blood.

ZUCKERFACE

Fucking drunks! I loathe this shithole and all its chitchat. I mean, talking to today’s dipsticks is like believing that a broad’s bald pussy is womanhood. Hell, even if some bum bones the bitch . . . baby hair—if the fish ain’t gutted first—will appear in the form of whining pain in the ass if it’s not a breech birth. But then again, what the fuck do you know sittin’ there like some hoity-toity thinkin’ I can’t hold my hootch.

Ooooh, so ya don’t like my tone do you? Well, okay then—come closer and read my tweety little lips . . . no, goddamn’it I didn’t spit on you . . . that was a beery blowback from my draft, my pint . . . so dig me forming my tweety little lips into one hundred and forty characters. See, I’m all puckered up, kissey-like, meaning the first syllable is you naked as a jaybird. Nah, forget that, wrong . . . you got no character so I’ve wasted a fucking vowel.

What’ya mean that’s mean?

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WHAT’S SO FUNNY

by

Peter Jacob Streitz

This bar is a fucking joke. I’ve seen every kind of animal walk in here. Only yesterday the goddamned chicken returned to ask why he crossed the road, again. Sick of his shit the Rabbi and I choked him out, de-feathered the scrawny bastard, and ate his wings raw. The dumb-ass barkeep asked if we wanted some dynamite hot sauce—yeah right, like the bloody mess really needed a condiment as he staggered out the door and across the street . . . only to get flattened by the ambulance he was always chasing.

As if that crap wasn’t funny enough, this militaristic pig sitting next to me never stops talking to the freakin’ penguin about politics.

“O’bambi repeatedly called them corpsemen.”

“Called who corpsemen?”

“Corpsmen. . . in a speech before the armed forces.”

“I don’t dig,” the penguin petulantly puffed. “Is this a joke?”

“Only if he’s Commander-in-Chief.”

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15 Minutes

The combination of just waking up and dealing with the effects of a heavy night’s drinking made the journey from the hotel bedroom to the door seem unconquerable, but Charlie managed it – just only to be greeted by his agent, Russ, reciting the morning newspaper, with no consideration for Charlie’s hangover from hell. “Charlie Walker, the winner of the latest reality show ‘Worldwide'” Russ boomed out with pride. “Where contestants visit a new country every week, and live as locals.” Charlie was struggling to concentrate on what was being said. “Charlie survived the weekly votes, and went on to win the controversial prize of fame.”

“So what does fame mean?” The girl approached Charlie in Sox, the latest in the long line of London hot spots, where Charlie was paid to make an appearance “as a prize,” the mystery woman clarified. “Basically a biography, and a film, called The Winner’s Story.” Charlie shouted above the repetitive thud of the music. “Cool. Bet you get this all the time, but, could I share a fish bowl with you?” Charlie knew why she had asked for this. He brought it on himself. In every country he visited with “Worldwide,” he would party with the locals. And the party always started the same way – with a fish bowl. On many occasions, this was greeted by a blank expression, until Charlie stepped behind the bar, and poured every spirit he could find, into a container, usually a bucket, and proudly said, “that’s a fish bowl.”

“Earth to Charlie.” Charlie was brought back from the previous evening. “I’m saying that Cleo’s sold her story.” Cleo? Charlie tried to place the name. “The girl from last night?” Charlie asked, panicked by the prospect.

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Spontaneous Grace

At this moment I experience the desire for spontaneous grace. For the rain that
holds off till ten minutes after your hike, for the extra five minutes a friend
waits until your arrival, for the extra twenty miles your car somehow runs until
the gas station.

For the soft edges on the too-metallic recliner, for the last three rays of the
sunset, for the directions you look up at the one coffeehouse where the public
computer actually gets Wi-Fi.

For the reason why some businesspeople stop and give change to a strange
homeless person, for the reason why a receptionist smiles and lets you in too
near closing time, for the reason why people share words of support and a few
bucks to folks online without asking for proof first.

For the mirror kind enough to break and shift your image in all the right ways,
for the dandelion in the cracks that escapes the neighbor’s weed-whacker, for
the train that waits for you.

For the traffic cop who winks – just once – at the jaywalkers or the driver ten
or fifteen miles over the limit, for the single parent whose garage sale
customers tell him/her to keep the change, for the time your housemate who loves
angry talk radio actually switches on music.

For the gleam of a rainbow in the soap scum on your dishes, for the time when
your Mom actually doesn’t open her mouth when there are still dirty dishes in
your room, for the reason I still do favors for a friend everyone says could do
more for herself.

For home, for love and memories, for the grace notes at the end of the symphony.
For the extras which get and keep us up in the morning. For spontaneous grace.

— After the concept of ‘Spontaneous Prose’ and dedicated to Jack Kerouac, Neal
Cassady, Edie Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Diane Di Prima.

Sandwich Poem

Lettuce, olives, and hummus.
I glance over the list of requested ingredients before spreading the garbanzo
paste over the whole grain bread, perhaps too neatly for a customer in a hurry.

Mayonnaise, tomatoes, and pesto.
He orders the same every day. Perhaps as an effort to reduce life’s complexity,
a suffocating variety present even in our deli kitchen. Some say he should try
more experiences, branch out, but some regularity is needed to make experience
possible.

Peppers, mustard, and tuna.
The woman’s children gather anxiously around her, tugging at her pant legs and
whining to go outside. As the last rays of sunlight waft in from the sliding
glass doors, I can’t say I blame them.

Cheddar, mayo, and lettuce.
She watches me work and requests more of everything, more cheese, more mayo,
more vegetables, until it becomes difficult to hold her order together. Perhaps
this is like life – not even that too much happens, but that everything mixes
together at once.

Jon and Beauty

The harsh winter had hardened the earth, but sheer determination plunged the shovel into the soil. It hadn’t been long since Jon had returned from the vets. The need to get this over with trumped his trademark procrastination. He was expecting this to happen – but expectation and reality are two different things, as Jon was discovering.

He sunk lower into the ground as the pile of dirt next to the hole grew. Jon wanted to stop. He was tired. “This is the last thing you’ll ever do for her. Do it properly.” He thought to himself. He owed her – it was his turn to give.

“What is it?” Jon spoke with a mixture of innocence and excitement that only a child can access.

“Come in and find out,” Jon walked into his parents room. Jon’s dad had been ill for a while and in bed for most of that time. Jon was not sure what was wrong with him. Every so often – since Jon could remember – his dad would spend a few weeks in bed. He wasn’t worried. He was angry. His latest stint in bed had meant Jon’s mom had been collecting him from school. It wasn’t the same. It had become a ritual to race down the hill on the way home. Jon would begin smiling five minutes before home time and keep smiling until he inevitably won the race.

Jon’s eyes widened as his father – the second best runner in the house– produced a beige, anime-eyed puppy from under his quilt. “This is for you.” Jon’s jaw dropped – this was amazing. “And you get to name her.” Jon almost collapsed. Getting a puppy, and he would name her! Names raced through his young mind, at a speed that made them all incomprehensible. All but one. Looking at the face of the new family member – in between being licked – it was clear. “Beauty.” His father looked at him for an explanation. “She’s got a beauty spot.” Jon had learned what a beauty spot was the previous week and still got a thrill from proving he knew what it was.

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