If For A Short Moment
REMINGTON GRAVES
The solemn sigh carried on and I wondered why sullen, why surrender, why defeat at the deftness of the day? And the winter of my discontent drove me to a wailing, pushed me to a dissonant drivel, babbling the better parts of my present. How many years had I laid dormant? Ascertaining at my grave, a ghost realized, I was aware of the carcass that carried me. Loathing and languid, my breath carried on like white noise reaching beyond a forlorn frequency. The Remington Rand invoked the gentleman rogue, and the nights swallowed my sunrises with tapping keys becoming the backbeat.
I sat on a black leather couch sending and receiving patterns out past my walls into the seething ether, humming as they went, in unlistenable hertz, keeping the anxiety attack to a mere bark. My hands had called to me in that moment, waving their tentacles pleading for some peace, agonizing for an answer–what are we to you, they said, what violence shall we caress to appease our master? My feet, cold and numb, shifting as distant traffic made its way away from home or back there again.
Schubert’s Le Voyage Magnifique sheared the existential pretensions that should’ve been enough. Piano keys dancing, highs and lows, like rain drops on the heads of dead soldiers somewhere far away across a kingdom by the sea, somewhere far away from me. What would it be like to kill an Arab? I thought reaching for an old cold cup of coffee that had sat there for a few nights.
What right do I have to clamor at the corners of my conscience, I sneered whilst beholding designer shoes atop an ottoman. True, my youth had said farewell some time ago. The weight of disappointment, co-conspirator with gravity as I felt my countenance attempt correction with a silly smile.
Hammer on, Franz, you brilliant fuck, and allow me to fester in this ephemeral state of failure. If for a short moment. For tomorrow, I rise again the phoenix.
And this way I carry on– I am both, Set and Horus, I die at night, born again the morning.
A hot shower in this crippling cold night might deem me cogent.
∞
Blunderer
REMINGTON GRAVES
Leggings arrayed with upside-down crosses came to my attention a few months ago at a Mobil in the middle of the night. A young girl fiendishly frolicked by giggling at her phone as it sat in her hand in selfie-high-up angle.( The trip gag should make its way back anytime now.) Her long, black pointy nails glistened under fluorescent lights in the gas station island. To my further disenchantment, she sported a shiny sulfur symbol patch on her pretty purse. Her white long hair with its lavender highlights, levitated with the wind and whimsically lured whatever prey available–I looked around for such a sucker.
“What are you doing on that phone?” I asked.
“I’m vlogging, do you mind?”
“No, I don’t mind. What’s ‘vlogging’?”
“Great. Thanks.”
“What’s that symbol on your purse mean?”
“Fuck…really, dude?! I don’t need no Christian giving me shit right now.”
“What gave it away,” I said with a serpentine smirk, “Is it my alligator shirt?”
“Look, man…I’m a witch, okay. No, I don’t worship the devil. This is some ancient shit. You wouldn’t get it. And a baby pink Lacoste shirt? What is this the year nineteen-eighty-two?”
“You’re a witch? Wow.”
“Yeah, so…”
“Do you have a witch channel or something?”
“Yeah, I do. What of it?”
“Just curious.”
“What kind of witch are you?”
“A real one.”
“Are there fake witches?”
“Oh, yeah, believe me. I study ancient texts. Read a whole bunch and shit. Trust me, its heavy stuff.”
“What makes you a witch? I’m simply curious.”
“Well…I–”
“Are you a Satanic Witch?”
“Hell, no. I’m a good witch.”
“Satanic witches are bad?”
“Obviously!”
“Well, not to me. I am not that educated in the subject.”
“Exactly. I am. I am actually in a hurry…but, take it from me. That’s some selfish shit right there.”
“And the kind of witch you are is not, right? What I mean is, you do things for others or for the greater good. Something like that?”
“Yeah, You got it. Look, I gotta go and buy some alcohol before they close here. And I need to finish this video for my fans. I have a lot of subscribers and YouBoobs kind of pays me, so…I am a professional.”
“Oh, okay. That’s interesting. I won’t hold you up. I was simply curious.”
“No worries, dude…take care,” she said walking towards the front door of the store and stopped after a few steps, “Hold on here.”
“Yes?”
“Was all this some strategy to get my number?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Very obvious, dude. But..I think you’re cute so…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Here take my number.”
“Okay.”
“Save it to your phone.”
“All right,” I said as I took my phone out and opened my chess app as she mumbled on.
“Got it?”
“That strategy paid off,” I said as I checkmated the simulation champion chess player at a supposed age 11 level.
“Okay, man, cool. Text me sometime soon, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Cool.”
“You ever hear of Magnus Carlsen?”
“Is he a gamer or a vlogger?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Hmm…don’t think so. Why?
“Just curious. I think he’s a Blunderer.”
“Oh…okay. Yeah, I think I’m subscribed to his channel.”
“That makes sense.”
“Don’t forget to text me okay?”
“I got your number.”
∞
I Should Get Up
REMINGTON GRAVES
I came home and threw myself on the couch, defeated and deservingly enervated. The day had drilled its devilish talons in my derriere and I exhaled relieved knowing this day, Sunday, was my “Friday.” Franz Schubert showed me his frenzied showmanship in maddening melodies as I kicked my cowboy boots off. Breathed like a morphined monk…rubbed the tension on the back of my skull tentatively, closing my eyes in grunting grimace. Breathed some more.
Sometimes I don’t feel like composing another song for the band I play in. Sometimes the band you play in doesn’t want you and you know it intuitively. The ten-speed stares at you tempting you to embark on the trail near your home…to smell the dying leaves, to smell the cold bite of winter on freshly rained dirt, to see the bunnies bouncing beside the bicycle. The typewriter turns slowly and gives you the eyes. The paintbrush shifts in its place. The camera you spend thousands of dollars clamors inside a pitch-black closet like a gagged girl taken by criminals demanding too high a ransom.
I should get up, I thought. Do something productive…create something, seize the fucking day. Even do the damn dishes. Call some broad to come do my laundry. But I don’t want to do that. I want to sit here on the couch, my cock and balls warm and cozy nestled betwixt my thighs free from the cutting cold outside. Kick on some Kubrick or some motherfucking Sierra Madre, which I have been trying to get to.
A hot shower would be great. Or a banana shake. I can make those now. A young blonde birdy taught me how.
I still have to lift some weights. Girls like nice arms, I hear.
Maybe I’ll just cheat at working hard and write about these thoughts instead.
∞
I’m Not Anyone
SAMMY DAVIS JR.
I’m not anyone
No not just anyone
I have the right to lead
A life fulfilled with every need
I’m not any man
Designed to fit someones plan
I have my own desires
Of the things a man aspires
I’ll not be used
Misled, deceived or abused
No sir not me
I am free
And I’ll not give away
The freedom I have is the same
To say I do I don’t
I will or I won’t
Know thyself
These words are true
Know thyself
I hope I do
Toil a while, but not in vain
I removed the child the man remains
Life is filled with those who fail
The weak the strong the meek the frail
And those who they refuse to try
And those who they never live then they die
I’m not I’m not one of those
I’m full of pride I suppose
I’ll say it loud
I am proud
And I’ll not I’ll not be a space
A no one a number a face
No sir not me
I am free
No I’ll not be used
Mislead deceived or abused
No sir not me not me
‘Cause I’m
I’m free
∞
Building Rome In Half A Day
REMINGTON GRAVES
I exhale cerulean and cage incendiary this languid response to
a minimum
powder burns on what was once described with succulent lips
venomous rhetoric
and an uncanny ability to become the ripper in a black night under your red lights
what hierarchy can endure deviation its corpulence the stuttering chant of what shall and
shan’t make a man ? now the benediction lies bemused and throbbing with welts across its countenance watching angels weep
my contrivances corner the cunt a rose by the same shame and allows invidious truths a small escape
plenary disclaimers involuntarily hesitate with both palms denying their ghosts prodigal twins
hungry
mouths fucking with finesse a series of frames the looming detectives posing as breasts upon
a hallow chest
better bark than bite darling
lack of life lacking experience
whore in the attention you seek mild decadence
sharpen your fangs for one last gallop you old goat which way the ungodly ?
satyriconned
unremitting fountain to be there replacing emotion so frail
lost and running from words we produce
shadowplay from shears forked meaning all too immature
oediplexing betwixt my mother’s legs as alarm clock reads six six sexes
it takes me hours it takes you days
revising closely the grammatical errors gargling airs put on in purple what style lacking on your page
exaggerated lifetimes allegedly i taste
you won’t help you here this feast designed for men without mouths waited upon by servants undelivered from the deluge
the master–the unwavering insecurities that are your only arsenal
now the warm machine won’t mind when i defy sycophantic notions expectations of becoming the becoming a bloody bitten apple in your eye
go back
read it again
what errors
only due arrogance
friendless
it might take you twice the lifetime
it
only
took me
the beginning
of the end
∞
Things Got a Little Hairy
REMINGTON GRAVES
It was effortless. I took my precious time. She had no idea. I almost envied her.
“Hello, do I know you?” she said with her left hand above her brow to block the sun while her right held the water hose right above her white roses.
“Hi, ” I said walking through her gate pretending not to study her face. “No, I don’t believe we have formerly met. I am detective Truman.” She squinted at me with a long pause trying to place me.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Listen, I know this is a bit forward, doll…but, would you mind terribly if I used your telephone?” I said holding my hat. “I won’t be long.”
“Well, I guess so. You seem all right. Sure, come on in,” she said giving me the once over as she turned off the water.
The house was small but charming: Yellow trim, roses all around it, and a large orange tree in the front lawn. The walk way was a simple concrete slab that led up three white, wooden steps, and to the front door.
“C’mon in,” she said taking her gloves off.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I replied.
The inside was as prim as the outside. Decent, hard-working American home. Lots of pastel colors. You know the way broads decorate. Entire place was carpeted real fancy-like. And a bird to boot somewhere screaming, “Bad dog, bad dog.”
“That’s Jack,” she said. “My Parakeet.”
“The phone.”
“Right,” she said with confusion on her face. “I only have one, It’s in the kitchen next to the fridge. Help yourself.”
“I will, thanks,” I said walking over to the kitchen and unplugging the chord from the wall. I could hear the radio turned up full volume. I closed the kitchen window and drew the blinds. I walked into the hallway to find her shadow standing still coming from the restroom doorway displaying a pair of scissors in her hand. Quietly I walked over to her. Her face was in the reflection of the mirror faintly weeping.
“Are you okay, Toots?” I said.
“Shhh! Listen,” she said as I honed in on the radio next to her medicine cabinet:
“THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN SHOT! I REPEAT, THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN SHOT!”
She threw her arms around me with the scissors a couple of inches away from my eyes, shaking like a leaf and mumbling something about a great man.
“It’ll be fine,” I said.
She lifted her head up from my chest and said, “I loved him.”
“Yes, kid, I know. But there are plenty of–”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “Come, let me show you.”
She grabbed me by the hand and took me to her bedroom. She went in her closet and pulled a buried shoebox from underneath a pile of clothes. Very delicately, she opened the lid.
“This is Johnny and I at the beach,” she said slowly handing me a photograph.
She must have lost her mind, I thought looking at the mess her mascara was leaving on her face. Until I looked at the picture. I couldn’t believe my eyes. But it was true, It was her. And there was Kennedy with that mongoloid of a smile, leaning in to kiss her. The trusted bodyguard in the background. She had on a flowing yellow summer dress, white glove gripping a pink rose and the other a cigarette as she sat on a big rock. I had found her.
“And this is us right outside of Jersey. Little pizza place we called our own. They have the best root beer floats there. You ever been?”
“I nodded.”
“Say, what did you say your name was, again?”
“Truman.”
“You married, Truman? Got a girl out there somewhere?”
“No.”
“Just as well, I suppose. People die all the time, leave you, move on to someone else. What the hell’s the point?”
“Gene, right?”
“Yes? Hey, what’s the big idea anyway? How did you know that?”
“I thought you mentioned it. Or maybe I saw it in your kitchen somewhere, envelope maybe.”
“Oh,” she said working her mind over the idea.
“Do you think I could trouble you for a cup of coffee? I was a huge fan of the Pres, myself. Maybe we can talk about it over a hot cup of Joe and a cigarette?”
And with that a smile came over her troubled countenance and said, “Sure…why not?”
The coffee was good and hot, I thought as I sipped and waited for her to return from the “little girl’s room” as she had put it.
“How do I look,” she said twirling into the kitchen.
“You look great,” I said, and boy did she ever. She had applied some tomato-red liptstick, let her hair loose, and changed into a slightly more provocative dress. Black with some lace at the cleavage.
“What, this old thing?” she said and giggled throwing her head back.
“Come and talk with me.”
“Okay, want some candy?” she said throwing a few pills down her throat and chasing it with a stiff one. Then taking a long drag of the cig.
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, you fuddy-duddy.”
“Tell me about John.”
“Oh, John. Yes…he was a riot. You know, between you and me, he loved eating pussy. Especially mine. He said it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, next to his kids, of course.”
“You don’t say. What about his wife?”
“Well, what about her? She got him most of the time. She got to spawn his damn kids, didn’t she?”
“And what about Marylin?”
“That talentless ditz had the sense of a hammer, and with enough plastic surgery to kill a small horse. She never was anything to worry about.”
“You don’t think he loved her?”
“I suppose he may have, in his own way, maybe. Like a man loves a dog or a shiny car. A very shiny car.”
“Do you remember me, Gene?”
“Maybe. Should I? Say, don’t you work for John? I thought I saw you at the New Years Eve party. Working the damn door.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You don’t talk much though, do you? You’re the silent type. Mysterious and all that. Bet that crap works wonders with the dames, eh?”
“Not much for women, actually.”
“Oh, you some kind of fruit or something?”
“No,” I said smiling.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Women are afraid of me.”
“Well, why is that? You seem a nice enough fella to me. You’re handsome. Got manners.”
“Can I show you something?”
“Sure, why not?”
I stood up and took a deep breath. I looked up at her ceiling and started to growl and then to foam at the mouth. It was madness. And it always hurt. But it had to be done. I told myself, It had to be done.
“Hey, fella, you okay?” she asked apprehensively.
“Just relax, Toots. Trust me, you don’t want to move from that chair,” I grunted as my teeth grew into fangs. My eyeballs felt like they were going to explode, they always did during the metamorphosis. My fingernails grew, hair sprouted from my face. My toes ripped through my shoes. I fucking hated that. I let out a long, piercing howl with sweat on my brow and bulging neck veins as she sat motionless with the cup in her hand, and her cigarette hanging from her lower lip. Urine ran down her leg and onto the linoleum floor.
I cackled uncontrollable as I held my gut. When I finally composed myself, I wiped the tears from my eyes and caressed my whiskers, pointed a long, hairy finger at her and said, “You should see the goddamn look on your face!”
Her mouth quivered and her face was white as a sheet. The urine kept coming.
“I did some of Johnny’s work,” I said loosening my tie and walking towards her. “He told me to get rid of you some time ago–said you had a big yapper. He had a myriad of things he always wanted me to do. With his bitches, his politics, that cunt of a wife, and those little bouncing brats, who could remember all the details? Jackie seems like a cadaverous lay, but you…you look like you know things. You reek of the streets. You’re a natural-born slut, no doubt about that. I was told to make it painless and to make it quick. But, sorry, Johnny, no can do. You fucked me for far too long, brother. I don’t owe him a fucking thing. I either, kill you brutally…or…hear me out: you let me move in here for a while. We fuck each other’s brains out from time to time, we fall in love, then we part ways, nobody gets hurt. I need a vacation anyway. So, whaddya say, sweet cheeks?”
The sun was warm and peeking through the blinds and the only sound you could hear was a wind chime outside and Jack saying, “Bad dog. Baaad dog.” And the gentle tap of her piss on the kitchen floor.
Tap, tap, tap…
∞
Dedicated to the Beast Within