‘Will you come today?’
He sits there, fumbling with the remote. ‘Stocks, Annie. I got to watch this.’
‘Stocks are on every day Papa. She raises the flowers in her right hand. 'I only get these three months a year.’
‘We’ll go tomorrow. You got three months right?’ Rubs his balding head gently. His hand comes to the side of his face. The open window blows his thinning hair. It is a reminder.
‘Papa.’
The television hums. Tears drip onto his cardigan.
‘Maury, stop-’
‘Come on. You’ve seen that film.’
‘What? This is a graveyard Maury, we’re not doing that here.’
‘Alright. What about next to that tree?’
She looks over and in the movement catches Maury’s grin. He shifts his leg slightly and that hardness fumbles against her leg. She hates dicks for their lack of personality. A dick would make a great marketing executive. A giant cock raps at spreadsheets and sales graphs as she pulls Maury to the tree and undoes his belt.
01 October, 2008
trying to write a story in reverse (I kind of miss the mark)
Each beat, each bam bam bam, leaves his hands tingling. Soon they will blister, maybe bleed, but each beat gets him further away and happier still.
His hands are already bloody. So too his face and shoes.
Catching up to the boy whose drumkit it was, grabbing his neck and throwing punch after punch and putting kicks in wanting to be sure he would get a long time on the kit by himself, as himself.
The boy whose kit it is walking further ahead, sprinting at times, unable not to, a mess of beats and cola and John Bonham, to this place out back of nowhere where a few old water barrels and tins and bits of wood make his kit.
It is a thing he is proud of and a thing he loves and a thing he is bragging about in school as every other kid listens jealously.
His hands are already bloody. So too his face and shoes.
Catching up to the boy whose drumkit it was, grabbing his neck and throwing punch after punch and putting kicks in wanting to be sure he would get a long time on the kit by himself, as himself.
The boy whose kit it is walking further ahead, sprinting at times, unable not to, a mess of beats and cola and John Bonham, to this place out back of nowhere where a few old water barrels and tins and bits of wood make his kit.
It is a thing he is proud of and a thing he loves and a thing he is bragging about in school as every other kid listens jealously.
Snoring (Performance)
‘Consistency. That’s what I was telling her Mart. You don’t need to have everything, you don’t even need to know all that much-’
‘Why are you telling our daughter this Ray?’
‘I’ve never been honest with that kid Mart. All through school, telling her she was never as good as she was. She must have taken me for an idiot. I know that teacher did. Hearing me talk like that.’
He lies on his side, facing the wall now. He used to sleep on his back, but he snored. Nothing worked. Pills, less beer, water before bed, even a small ball of cotton wool on his tongue. Ray was a snorer.
‘Paul wants to meet you, Dad. I know you don’t have time this weekend but…’
She pulled that old check cardigan around her, pushing her fingers on the steel table. The sun had gone in and the waiter stood beneath the awning, hands laced behind him.
‘We can meet. I’d like to see the boy.’ He dips his head a bit, flashes that grin Mart loved on the bleachers with those other boys in roll-up t-shirts. ‘See if he’s up to Jessica’s standard.’
‘I’m right here. We don’t need a third person in this.’ She leaned back and dug her hands in her pockets. Stalemate, all for a 1970s hotel and dog-eared magazines in racks next to your knees.
‘Did you meet Paul?’
He rolled onto his back. ‘No,’ he said finally. It came out like the last apple in a wet sack found at the bottom of the shed. ‘She said we’d meet next time I was in town.’
‘She said that last time too Ray.’
‘I know Mart.’ Crooked his hands behind his head, looked at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t he stop snoring?
‘Why are you telling our daughter this Ray?’
‘I’ve never been honest with that kid Mart. All through school, telling her she was never as good as she was. She must have taken me for an idiot. I know that teacher did. Hearing me talk like that.’
He lies on his side, facing the wall now. He used to sleep on his back, but he snored. Nothing worked. Pills, less beer, water before bed, even a small ball of cotton wool on his tongue. Ray was a snorer.
‘Paul wants to meet you, Dad. I know you don’t have time this weekend but…’
She pulled that old check cardigan around her, pushing her fingers on the steel table. The sun had gone in and the waiter stood beneath the awning, hands laced behind him.
‘We can meet. I’d like to see the boy.’ He dips his head a bit, flashes that grin Mart loved on the bleachers with those other boys in roll-up t-shirts. ‘See if he’s up to Jessica’s standard.’
‘I’m right here. We don’t need a third person in this.’ She leaned back and dug her hands in her pockets. Stalemate, all for a 1970s hotel and dog-eared magazines in racks next to your knees.
‘Did you meet Paul?’
He rolled onto his back. ‘No,’ he said finally. It came out like the last apple in a wet sack found at the bottom of the shed. ‘She said we’d meet next time I was in town.’
‘She said that last time too Ray.’
‘I know Mart.’ Crooked his hands behind his head, looked at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t he stop snoring?
Theme of Performance
On the same stage I would watch when it held my fucking heroes I sweat and fucking wail at these wide eyed and beautiful people I grew up here with but just before.
Last night of tour and fuck all the agent bullshit and roadies I want to fucking swing into my old school bar and drink like a fucking knight.
I sing the big songs tonight and I sing them fucking big. But deep in maybe my heart I know someone out there is waiting for me to sing my real biggest song, a song I’ve been trying to write since I first strummed a chord or however I started now.
I know because I was waiting for that song, thinking I would never be the one to write it.
And here my people are waiting for this big, big song of my life. I’m waiting for it.
And tonight there will be no big drinks, even if I can get away from the obligations.
It will just be me, writing to myself, trying to remember exactly how close I was to singing one of my other big songs just right on this stage for these people who want me to do it.
Last night of tour and fuck all the agent bullshit and roadies I want to fucking swing into my old school bar and drink like a fucking knight.
I sing the big songs tonight and I sing them fucking big. But deep in maybe my heart I know someone out there is waiting for me to sing my real biggest song, a song I’ve been trying to write since I first strummed a chord or however I started now.
I know because I was waiting for that song, thinking I would never be the one to write it.
And here my people are waiting for this big, big song of my life. I’m waiting for it.
And tonight there will be no big drinks, even if I can get away from the obligations.
It will just be me, writing to myself, trying to remember exactly how close I was to singing one of my other big songs just right on this stage for these people who want me to do it.
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