Every Creature Its Own Way
REMINGTON GRAVES
The bicycle ride by the old river conjured up old contorted ghosts, ghosts mumbling about the good old days, about the bad old days, and the messy stack of days in between. The water is higher than it has been in about thirty years, I heard someone say. Gnarled wooden hands peaked in the middle of the current like victims reaching for the sun, seized by surprise and frozen in time. The ripples ran through the surface and created Dali dunes that inspired decompression. Dust carried by the wailing wind got in my eyes and threatened to invade my mouth. I gripped my arms tried to warm myself from the chill.
The water had been gone a long time. Now that it’s back, I find it beautiful. Somehow I have learned in my old age, it takes an absence for me to appreciate the simpler things. I’m a slow learner.
I see how the fowl of the air rest their fond feathers on the trees aside the body of water. I imagine the tree enjoys it’s company, and likewise the bird. Or perhaps they both silently accept the other’s need for one another, if for a short time.
A caw then the furious flutter of raven wings beating the wind and disappearing. The tree remains. There is no argument about one wanting the other to remain.
Nature understands: Every creature its own way.
Understand me, ye nature’s creation. And don’t try and stop me.
∞
This Far A Distance
REMINGTON GRAVES
I arrive at my work to behold bright yellow brick walls arrayed
With frames of pop art and Elvis squaring up with Muhammad Ali and
Animal skulls and paintings of tattoo inspired ideas riddle the building from top to bottom
The tattoo machines abuzz converting the place into a hive of money-making monkeys
Wonderful women giggle and moronic men grunt
The artists stare at each other from time to time
Tired
Competitive
Clashing mildly in rebellious assimilation
My shoes have stains of hot pink drops on them
Green
White
Clients come around rudely demanding deals
Some asshole asked for a case of beer and twenty dollars to
Cover half my arm
Then why the fuck are you here I say
The place gets quiet and tense
I have been at this place for thirteen years and no longer
Desire to know anybody or to be one of the big wigs
The only thing that gets me off in the world of tattooing is making money
And making my client happier than they imagined they would be with the final product
I am the asshole from time to time and everybody knows
They know I know
I connect my cellular device and pair it to the sound system and play The Cramps
I won’t dare play Schubert there anymore
Grown men begin to cry like incorrigible cunts
Blue tooth
Wi fi
Discounts
Gift cards
Customer service
I faintly hear the roar of a T Rex somewhere far away in time
Nobody then laughed at his little arms whirling as he fought
Until the end
Many would laugh now though
Because its safe to do so
At least from this far a distance
∞
Chairs In The Dark
REMINGTON GRAVES
I came home late and was taken aback by the chairs in the dark, they had all been moved and were facing each other away from the dining table. The street light always managed to penetrate through the blinds on the sliding door that lied between the living room and dining room.
I spat the papers I had in mouth and locked the door right before I turned the lights on. The ominous silhouettes summoned Schubert’s Piano Trio number 2 in E flat major. It was almost as if they were staring at each other, convening in the terrible tranquility, communicating. It was still.
The grandfather clock kept clocking and the traffic in the distance, faint.
And there they were…an order of invisible silent men, the council of quiet, all nine chairs.
How had this occurred? I wondered. Such a bizarre sight. The eerie reserved reticent eagerly begged me to run, to clamor, to stand like stone for fear, fear of what–one never knows when confronted by such a weird scene.
As I took a step towards them, the telephone rang loudly startling the pate out of me.
“Yes?”
“How many chairs?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many? How many chairs?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m you.”
“This some kind of gag? It’s not funny.”
“No gag, bub.”
“How do you know about the chairs?”
“They represent the council of your psyche.”
“What in the world are you talking about?!”
“I set them up that way. Well, by “I”, I mean you.”
“Is this me?”
“Yes, this is you.”
“And I am… you?.”
“Yes.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“I am going to hang up now…after you give me a number.”
“What number?”
“The chairs…how many?”
“Nine, damn you, nine!”
“Good bye.”
“Hello?”
Dial tone
“Hello?!”
Dial tone…
∞
True Grit
REMINGTON GRAVES
I came home from work on a Sunday night to find one of my neighbors walking to and fro and carrying a few boxes. She approached me quickly, after she caught me on her radar and gave me no opportunity to run.
“Do you live around here?”
“I do.”
“My name is Gritella, nice to meet you. I’m sorry I look like a wreck, I’ve been cleaning my condo all day and, well…never mind. You are?”
“Exhausted and ready to throw myself atop my living room couch.”
“Hey, you’re funny. I meant, what’s your name?”
“My name is Alien Vacuum.”
“Nice to meet you, Alien.”
“Say, you mind giving me a hand with a box or two? I promise, they’re not too heavy. I promise I won’t murder you or anything.”
“Well–“
“Oh, c’mon, it won’t kill you. You some kind of musician type or something? All those tattoos, wow. I bet your wife must think they’re sexy.”
“I’m not married.”
“Oh, okay. Any kids?”
“Sheesh, lady.”
“Oh, wow, listen to me…ha, ha, I’m so sorry. You know, my mother always said I had a nose longer than my hair.”
“Good head on her shoulders.”
“So, what do you do?” She said as she walked in front of me through a narrow walkway amidst tall bushes.
“I am a tattoo artist. What about yourself,” I asked feigning interest.
“I have three or four jobs. Depending on your definition of the word job, I guess.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Stop that, sir. You’re kind I can tell.”
“You can tell how?”
“The spirit. The spirit told me just now.”
“Oh, goodness.”
“What?! Don’t do that. What do you mean by that?”
“You’re a nut case.”
“I am offended, Sir.”
“No, you’re not.”
“True, ha, ha. How can you tell.”
“It’s obvious you get it all the time.”
“Oh, I like you, Alien. I can already tell, we are gonna be great friends,” she cackled turning the knob on her front door.
“I should drop these boxes and make a run for the hills.”
“You are hilarious. Oh, my gosh, you should feel blessed I’m letting you in my home.”
“Yeah, blessed is what I feel at this moment,” I said walking in and observing the white walls, the white coffee table, white napkins on the dinner table, white carpet…
“You okay? You look scared or nervous or something.”
“So much white…it’s a bit odd.”
“Really? Why?”
“What are you hiding?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re a “woman of god” now and you think you were a dirty person, correct?”
“Oh, my word…that’s like…I’m gonna cry. How did you know? I mean, how can you tell? I was addicted to pornography. And my last boyfriend, well, I was crazy about him and I almost did threesomes to make him happy and stuff.”
“Just a lucky guess.”
“I don’t believe in religion, I only believe in–“
“A relationship with your lord and savior Jesus Christ.”
“Are you a Christian also?”
“Not even close.”
“Have you read the Bible?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did you think?”
“I want my money back–and it was free.”
“Oh, you just need time to feel the spirit work its way in you, that’s all.”
I did my best to get teary-eyed and sat up straight on her white, velvet couch and said,” I didn’t want to say anything but…”
“Yeah?” She said leaning in mouth slightly ajar.
“I do feel something. It started right before you walked up to me.”
“Nooo…really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Woah, describe it to me,” she said biting on her index nail.
“Well,” I said standing up and rubbing my belly, “ I think I need to take a shit.”
“Huh!?”
“Good night, Griselda,” I said closing the door behind me.
“It’s, It’s Grit–“
∞
Any Second Now
REMINGTON GRAVES
What sudden clamor did arise?, I wondered as a relentless raucous yanked me from my slumber.
The icicles outside once plump, then sharp and pointy, and now falling to their broken backs and melting deaths outside my home…had a clump of snow slid from my roof unto the ground? No, that wasn’t it, I though as dishes shattered.
Someone was in my kitchen breaking whatever they pleased, it seemed–and my restful sleep also! I should run down stairs in a mad frenzy, feeling about the walls balancing my rage and wonder…allowing curiosity to echo in my empty belly of banality–how long had it been since the spell had been broken; my peace was sweet at first, and then a creeping moldy death brilliant in its lulling song, as I reclined daily, to the passing of my days.
My feet are cold and aching still. They will leave, surely they will be gone by the time I run into that room to behold shattered china, gleaming and beaming silverware with its sunlight patterns on my kitchen ceiling. The morning with its birds will seem forever horrible to find my enemy afoot and staring calmly and waiting for me to move an inch. Even now, at the thought, I dare not move. They will lose patience…they will regret the shameful act, criminal and petty that its, behold the holes in the walls they have caused and with long calm breaths, pacify themselves with a moment’s mundane thought: to turn away, to leave and turn away unregrettably. Nothing needs to happen, the anger is exorcised, the damage is done, shall there be more? The prisons are overcrowded, cold, and devoid of women…or men, depending on the prison, I suppose. What will you do there, my mysterious enemy? I shall give you a moment longer to ponder the penalty of such a petty blunder.
Any second now the door will open, and he…or she, will walk out, and if a paragon of etiquette, will close the door behind them.
I will lay here under my blankets for a few seconds longer. To avoid my end, to avoid the cold steel of an unforgiving knife, to neglect the pounding fists of a madman with nothing to lose, the clawing nails of a woman scorned…
Any second now…
∞