Lets Not Be Frank
FRANK
hi how you doin?
my name is Frank. I run a supply store down here in Georgia and wanted to let you know .
I’ve been successful for over 30 years .man I can’t tell you what a blessing its been wow blows me away. My wife left me for another man but thet doesn’t shake my faith. I aint gonna lie I have a few beers a day, but who the hell gets drunk of of beer man no what I mean? I think crazy thoughts dont mean Im gonna go out therr and do all of them.
Brakes my heart that you gotta write this kind of trash and stuff you know what I mean really.
Only reason I know about this sight is my kid was looking at it and talking on her phone telling her friends how awesome your stuff is up there on that damn thing. she’s only 19 an already she’s looking at garbage on the internet. she smokes pot and stuff but I let her only if its in the house wieth her friedns . See I’m not a big o square man . I try and keep a balance .
I really dont know what so grate about it I can’t even understand half the crap your saying with them big words! I bet you dont evne know what they mean.
Cmon man just quit this stuff god loves you and me and you dont want to burn in hell do you?
Well do you??
-Frank
Interstellar Space
REMINGTON GRAVES
I was twenty years old when I heard that nightmarish reed shrill and shriek and drop in tone and naked-lunch-baritone shower the stars in my skull with its explosive orgasmic release. I recall sitting at an office of a Good Night Inn on a bad morning, where I was desk clerk and twirling my tie as Mars moved on in with its masterful menace with The Trane and Ali. First the bells gently bouncing in Coltrane’s hands as Rashied Ali rushed down the alley and down a flight of stairs getting to his appointment–a stage set for two bodies to become one, undeniably the grandfather and standard for all saxophone and drum duets in music. The morning got better shortly thereafter. I was lucky enough that my boss hardly came around, Indian cat who loved chasing underage pussy while his wife woefully wondered.
I unplugged the phone from the wall and turned up the volume, walked to our complimentary breakfast table and poured myself a cup of the best Folgers money can buy. Lifted the blinds on a small window and focused in on a fuzzy bright yellow and orange rose with two bees beautifully fighting for its attention.
Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn. Four tracks fornicating with my listening funnels.
Ali, the drummer desperate to abandon the bunk terrestrial boundaries and set a cutting course for uncharted space. Coltrane, perhaps at his most visceral, exuding an overwhelming dose of diabolical confidence managed at times by sacrosanct and turbid tenderness. This was recorded in the studio in the year of Mr. Coltrane’s death, 1967. And released in ’74.
Rocketmen breaking barriers and bruising along the way to bring forth the best free flowing sounds of future fervency. Passionate movers of planets. Wizards of wonder.
Years later, I summon its power while I paint, fuck, cook, write, contemplate at the crapper, slip into old tattered boat shoes and shaking ’cause the heater’s broken on a Christmas Eve…
Thank you, gentlemen. Your genius and discovery in Interstellar Space will always be a vessel of escape. Its incendiary sorcery ignites a burning furnace within.
∞
The Other Participants
REMINGTON GRAVES
“I want to see other people,” she said removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose with a long sigh. The light softly centering the both of them on that old black leather couch they received as a wedding gift a few years ago.
“See other people?” He replied with a vulnerability in his voice.
“Yes, other people. Other fucking people. You don’t fuck me anymore. You hardly want to talk to me. I have wasted hundreds of dollars on stupid lingerie that sits there mockingly in my dresser drawer. Please, don’t act like this isn’t something you want. Have some fucking respect for me.”
“I don’t. I don’t want that.”
“You don’t?! You told Derek you thought the UPS lady was fucking hot.”
“What? That’s guy talk, honey.”
“So…she’s not hot?”
“Well, she is very attractive, but…that doesn’t mean–“
“Mean what? That you wouldn’t fuck her in a heart beat?”
“Why is it about fucking with you? What is that, the ultimate peak in any relationship or something?”
“Maybe it is. It’s the way I express my passion, my appreciation, you know?”
“That’s not how I express mine.”
“No, you just don’t express it.”
“Not to you.”
“Oh, there it is! Finally, some fucking hint of truth.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Look, let’s start over. I’m gonna make myself a drink. Want one?”
“Sure,” she said sighing emphatically as she kicked her heels off.
“Here you are, “ he said handing her the glass as he sat on the other end of the couch. “All right, we have been married for over six years, I get it–you’re bored. You want someone new.”
“That’s not exactly right.”
“Well, then tell me, explain it to me, please. Honestly, let’s have the ultimate honest conversation. Just give it to me raw. Yes, some of it might hurt, maybe most of it. But I’m an adult. And I don’t want to live a false life. I don’t want to live in a world where things appear to be a certain way. I want to live in a life where things are truly what they appear. And to give that to someone else, to the person I care most about.”
“Are you sure you want to open this door?”
“I am positive. Let’s do it. Fuck it.”
“Okay. Okay…Well, for starters, I like women.”
“Like in threesomes?”
“You are such a fucking guy sometimes, you know that?”
“What?”
“Sex is the last thing I like women for. I love the way they can empathize with me about my emotions. I am drawn to their sensitivity. Their soft touch.”
“I am attracted to men.”
“Okay, see, that’s…wow. Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow. That’s great.”
“And transvestites.”
“Oh.”
“And hermophradites.”
“Wait–“
“And–“
“Wait a fucking minute!”
“What?”
“Are you fucking joking? You’re joking, right? That would explain why I was not enough for you.”
“Enough?”
“You bastard.”
“Weren’t you just telling me you wanted to see other people?”
“Yes, I want to see other people.”
“But it’s not okay if I want to?”
“Fuck. This is not going how I planned.”
“How did you think it was gonna go? You get what you want and I don’t?”
“No. Not exactly. Shit…I guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“Far ahead enough to consider me?”
“Fuck me…I guess not. I just realized what a crazy cunt I can be.”
“It’s okay, I can be a crazy cunt myself. I don’t need to tell you, you had to put up with it for years.”
“THAT’S END OF SESSION, FOLKS!”came the voice over a megaphone.
They both stood up systematically and stared at each other in sullen silence. Tears began to run down her face. Her lips trembled. He reached out to her and said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, every time I do these sessions it’s so liberating. So empowering.”
“I know what you mean. My skull feels like its got ginger ale in it.”
“You ever think about actually doing it?”
“Telling my wife these confessions?”
“Yes, all of it.”
“Of course I do. Every day. While she folds laundry, as she cooks, while she’s giving me oral pleasure. Or putting the kids to bed.”
“I understand. Same with me. Hey, you want to get a drink? There’s a nice bar across the way near by.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. My wife is waiting for me. She thinks I am at the office finishing up some paperwork.”
“What a shame. The other participants have not been as good-looking as you.”
“Thank you. Who knows, they might pair us again someday.”
“Doubt it, I have been doing this for over a decade and never been the same guy.”
“That long, eh?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Six years.”
“Not pocket change.”
“I guess not. Well, it was nice doing a session with you. Take care.”
“Are you sure I can’t convince you? For what it’s worth, I’ve always considered a tranny in the mix.”
“Sorry. Good luck,” he said as he put on his sunglasses and baseball cap and walked away.
“Yeah, you too.”
∞
Yes Father Please Do
REMINGTON GRAVES
Congruently disseminating and amid the crude dissonance, I rubbed upon the weathered beads while my back bone complained of the wooden pew. I demurred in my doting youth against the clergy and here I find myself staring at old, hard bubble gum on the floor inside the house of god, in the shape of Golgotha. The years have taken their toll upon my countenance. From a little village in France, to the hell they call Hollywood. I, Smegor Gamsa, who once crawled upon the hard, cold soil like a roach, here now in the land of the stars. My mothers’s monstrous moaning in her deathbed still resounds in my mind. Father would have laughed himself to death had he seen me this way. Bastard. Forgive me…listen to me, talking to myself. I have long ago stopped believing in all this nonsense. And yet here I remain, an important person in the eyes of these idolatrous peasants. The starving, the hungry, the weeping and the wanting…what a disgusting drudge of drones. I smile as I swallow my own vomit at their pleading eyes. ‘Father, say a prayer for me, will you?’ Fools these slaves be. I suppose I should have a little more compassion–all things considered.
“Father Gamsa, will you please come inside?”
“Yes, my son, allow me a few minutes to enjoy our Lord’s beautiful handiwork. Just look at those clouds, will you? How can a man deny the existence of our savior?”
“Yes, Father. I am in awe of his paintbrush and all–“
“Yes, yes, and all of that. Give me a hand. These steps always kill me.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I need you to take me to the stars again.”
“Yes, Father.”
Young girls in roller skates stride on by yelling and giggling a guttural melody as the sidewalk tiles keep a backbeat on their song. Blonde and brunette hair flowing under a California sun. Children holding on to their parent’s hands firmly as they cross the street. Beat up automobiles tailgaiting neon-green lamborghini, here the vermin crawl side by side with villainous trust fund trollops. I walk on the stars from time to time. Names of mighty men now forgotten. There used to be a great Thai restaurant called Mama Siam across the street from the Greyhound station over there. A crying shame the way the world is changing.
“Father?”
“Yes, Memed?!”
“You’ve been quiet for an hour now.”
“I like to think, young man.”
“What is it you think about, Father?”
“Your mother sucking my cock.”
“What that, Father?”
“I’d like to walk a few more blocks.”
“Oh, okay. Well, we should be turning back, it’ll get dark soon.”
“You know, you really know how to ruin a wet dream.”
“A wet what, Father?”
“Scene! You really know how to ruin a great scene.”
“Yes, Father. I apologize.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get the damn car and come pick me up, I’ll be here on this bench resting my feet.”
“Thats like a mile back, Father.”
“What’s your point?”
“Of course, Father. I will return as soon as I can.”
“Well, hurry up about it.”
“Hey, priest dude.”
“Yes, child?”
“You’re fucking stupid,” said a young boy with tattoos on a skateboard. Surrounded by his companions they belted in laughter and patted each other on the back.
“I will pray for you child.”
“Pray for my mother, that she gets D.P.’ed in hell.”
“D.P.?”
“Double Penetration, dude. Gee, you priests need to get hip, man. Shit, I mean, what era do you guys live in?”
“Yes, yes…god bless you.”
They mounted their skateboards and sped away in all their glorious youth. One of them had a big pentagram on the back of his denim vest drawn in black marker. I ran into the guys from The Church Of Satan once. Back in ’79–or was it ’88? I was not wearing the ridiculous garb I have on now when we crossed paths. It was in a bar called The Frolic Room. Handsome fellow named Floyd Mice bought me a beer and answered all my questions when I spotted the rune banner on his left arm. The more he drank the friendlier he got. All pretty smart fellows. Even the blonde girl who seemed a bit unsure of herself, the way she clung to her mutant-looking boyfriend.
“I need to piss, buddy. Care to join me?”
“Join you?”
“Yes, man, are you deaf? It’s gonna snow in there.”
“Snow?”
“Oh, christ, buddy–I got some good fucking cocaine.”
“Oh, right. I mean, well yeah. Of course yo do.”
“Follow me, dude.”
I remember it like yesterday. That young man had the sweetest mouth the way he placed my member in it and savored it like a hungry refugee in Zimbabwe. His black leather boots gripping the dirty concrete floor as he put some work in. I remember wondering how he got them so shiny as he kept purposely choking and gagging.
God, was I ever that young? They had an amazing philosophy. Hell, I almost went with them. All that black clothing though…I don’t think–
“Father, I have been honking over ten times for you now.”
“Oh, shut the hell up, young man. I’m coming.”
“Yes, Father, please do.”
∞
The Solemn Singing Did Surrender
REMINGTON GRAVES
The solemn singing did surrender.
What blooming wounds would sink the sender.
With lacerations across thy countenance.
The orphan shudders devoid of sustenance.
This arid wilderness cold steel rusting.
Belief has come amid the lusting.
What shall we say within the wandering?
A battle field has left us longing.
Shall voices irrevocably leave a deafening?
This cruelty of ignorance of men unyielding.
With leather-bound beating fists.
The eyes they see and ears that hear and yet resist.
Prove all things and try all things.
And your second death no longer stings.
The ancient virus I no longer host.
With thunderous clamor of liberty boast.
∞