If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Sunday, June 10, 2018

The Pinewood 8

There are seven apartments at the Pinewood 8, all of which are ground level and rent month-to-month, weekly, or by the hour. 
     Click Larson stands outside of Unit 3, door opened behind him, on the concrete stoop Pinewood 8’s rental agreement designated as ‘patio area’, and whose maintenance he was responsible for, at risk of losing his one hundred dollar cash deposit. 
     In the same practiced and slightly absent manner a long-time smoker might coax a final strike from a Bic lighter, low on fluid, Click is shaking a squeeze container of French’s Hot Dog Mustard, his stare intently eastward. Click has rented Unit 3 for the week. 
     Against the mold, monochrome and dark silhouettes of the apartment’s sparse furnishings encased in the doorway at Click’s back, the bright yellow mustard container is a splash of cheer, a lone Daisy growing through the cracks of an eight-lane Interstate. 
     Cheerful as it is, Mark ‘Piles’ Brandon, wonders no less what the fuck somebody would need mustard for at six-thirty in the morning. He pours a second cup of de-caf and watches Click as the coffee cools enough to sip.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Rough Sketch of a Greeter

Angela stands at the entrance to the self-checkout, hands at her sides, fingers splayed, as if the paint on her acrylic nails is freshly applied and drying.
          Aside from a pair of brilliant red lips, she is accessorized entirely in shades of blue and yellow, the colors that compose her pants and vest—the uniform in which she works. The acrylics are yellow, bright, as are the laces of her walking shoes. Her hair shares not only the shade, but also the same ambiguous shape and stale, sodden qualities of carnival popcorn. Her shoes are blue. Her eyes, hidden in the color, three or four sparkling variations.
          She wears golden rings on every cobbled finger, bracelets on her wrists, a brooch, her name tag. The word 'dish' comes to mind, ballroom floors, though the whole of her is like a piece of silken furniture left at a window for years, silted and brittle and faded by the sun.
          She smiles. Her teeth are long and white, flecked with the red of her lips.

          “Hello,” she says, batting lashes, long and stiff as plastic. “How are you on this beautiful, beautiful day?”

Monday, August 21, 2017

On Potty Training and The Missing Clue

If you didn’t already know, I’ve acquired another dog. Silky. She’s a puppy. We’re potty training.

  This is a first for me. The other dogs came full-grown, well mannered and with clear methods of informing me that they need to be let out, for whatever reason. Silky is not so readable. That’s where we’re at presently: Me learning her language ... the signs. 

  My house is small. From where I sit at my computer, I can look to my right, through a doorway, and see, not the door itself, but the area immediately in front of the entrance to the bathroom, the Foyer de Jon, if you will. 

  It’s to this foyer that Silky comes, not before, but immediately after she relieves herself (On potty pads, fortunately. She does understand how they work). Silky doesn’t go into the bathroom; she only looks inside, and then to me, back at the bathroom, and then trots off to resume whatever chewing she was involved in prior to said call of nature. 

  There’s some logic here. Some pattern to which I am missing the all-important piece ... that cue prior to the squatting that is the simple difference between Silky doing her business in my living room or outside in the backyard. One hundred and fifty potty pads and counting. Believe you me, I’m watching her every flutter and flinch. We’ll get this figured out, she and I. Soon.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Friday, July 28, 2017

Letter to a Girl in Holding

If I knew, I would tell you about the winter I vanished, and in the Desert (as is most often the case), learned that Love takes the greatest beating of all.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017


He looked up from loading the tools back into his truck and saw in the bare yard, the old Maple, left for shade when the lot had been cleared. 

     In the heat, exhausted from the day, he saw the tree, not as beautiful, as he once would have, but as a big, dumb, thing. A thing on which his thoughts were wasted, his time. A thing that, like the farmers and deadbeats, who, on good days he called neighbors, offered him only blank stares when he spoke of his desires. A thing that, in its inability to give, had unknowingly stolen from him the brightness of his words. Everything in this place had become an enemy. 


Friday, July 7, 2017

Bridge to Terabithia

I figure my Elementary School had Katherine Paterson's, Bridge to Terabithia on a shit-list of some sort. That's why I never read it as a kid.

I went to a private school. A Christian private school. A school so uptight, it made St. Paul's, the local Catholic school, look like some sort of inner-city den of iniquity. A school that didn't hire ... even part time ... liberated, new-age hippy music teachers, like Bridge's Miss Edmunds. A school that prayed regularly, said the Pledge of Allegiance and would blackball in a heartbeat, even a Newberry Medal-Winner, with a character like short-haired, pants wearing Leslie Burke, who says, and I paraphrase, that she didn't believe God went around damning people straight to hell.

Why Leslie, don't be such a silly girl.

Sigh. What else did I miss out on?

Anyway, I've read Bridge to Terabithia now. Got a lovely signed '77 hardcover edition. Cried like a baby. Wonderful read. Highly recommend it.