Dramaturgy

I dream about them, all of them, mother, sisters, and it wakes me, and I get up even though it is my day off and it is still dark.  I check the weather-- it's not exactly raining but the air is definitely wet.  Eventually the sky changes colors, dark-dark gray becomes light gray, call it dove gray or pigeon gray or pearl.

I can't remember the dream, only who was in it and that I was being spoken to, everything was directed at me, and that it seemed almost like a play I was watching or I was in, either, both.

I wonder if I'd had a brother would we still be close.

The sky is becoming lighter and lighter-- "morning has broken."  I sang that song in sixth grade chorus.  In sixth grade I realized I liked a boy more than I liked Jackie Donvito, this boy who liked Jackie Donvito more than me, I suppose.  Funny, I remember her name, but not his.

In sixth grade I was punched in the face for not sitting in my seat on the bus.  Who does that?  Who punches a boy in the face for disobeying the bus driver?  Not the bus driver, but some blonde-haired bully with a rock for a hand.  My school pictures that year featured the purple ring of black-eye.  These days, Photoshop would have fixed that.

That I've made it this far without being punched in the face again-- is that a testimony to the kind of man I've become?

The sky is feathered, gray, blue, white.

What were they telling me, mother, sisters?  What were they saying?

"Oh, Human Bondage!"

Read it here.

"He in His Cups."

Read it here.

He Comes When He Comes

I've been informed that "My Last Good Year," published by Juked earlier this year, has been nominated by Juked for inclusion in the 2011 Best of the Net anthology. Keep your fingers crossed!

Yes, There Will Be Riots

There's too much to say because so much time has passed. They look at one another, amazed, and they lie. You haven't changed at all, they both say but, of course, they have changed! They've aged, lost hair and muscle tone, they've thickened or slackened. Time's march. It will sadden him later, the difference between then and now.

Haven't I missed you, dreamed about you? Tell me everything, fill me in on all the days that have past since I last saw you? Who were you with? What did you see?

Some three thousand days. There's too much to say and so they say nothing. There have been dreams in which there had been this silence. In one, they grappled. In another, one poured a bath. No words were spoken.

Oh, dread. Time's march. Yes, there will be riots somewhere and injustices, car accidents, good and bad weather. Turn around and look behind you and time stretches out, your long shadow with everything in it, and somewhere in all of it he is sitting on a bench, holding a golf club and softly beating the dirt with it, and there are his knees which you will never forget, ever.

A Mini Review of Meet Me On The Moon.

Read it here. (Use the handy Haydon's Ferry Review link to go directly to review.)

It's Friday, Not the End of the World, Okay?

There's a couple in the parking lot, making out beside a truck. He's wearing a blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, baseball hat turned backwards. She's wearing a sundress, has blonde hair. They are going to Shady Grove for lunch, I guess. I watch them walk off, wondering if he has an erection. I would like to think that he did, and that he was happy to be walking around with it, half-hoping people would notice.

The dog sleeps on two pillows, one on top of the other, in a way that makes her look incredibly pampered.

My palms sweat and itch like they did when I ended up in the hospital. What are they trying to tell me?

I tell the dog I love her very much. I tell her she is the sweetest thing, that she and Daddy are the best things in my life. When I take out the trash, I tell her I'll be right back, to assure her she's not being abandoned. Maybe she doesn't really care. When I check the mail I say the same thing. I like to think it means something to her, the way "walk" and "treat" does. When I say to her, "I want to pick you up like a little baby," she bolts. When she was little I used to pick her up like that and whisper, "My baby, my baby, my baby," rocking her back and forth. Now, there's white hairs on her muzzle; she doesn't want to be picked up anymore.

I wonder what that couple are having for lunch-- I recommend the fried shrimp. I wonder if they are holding hands, if he's still chubbing. I like to think that he is.