The Moon Also Rises


the world went that way once. Went in the way the world was wont to go. Went wild there there went wild she did. The world there did she, the world there did she go.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Stu sat there and stewed. The tall cowboy hatted Frehner sat next to the other who stewed and then pulled out some chaw and put it in his mouth then spit.

“Goddamn, rascal, di she, you know it’g got ti go.”
“Spect.” Said stu and he just sat there and kept on stewing.

400 years later.

I thought that was that? You know what I mean? You got to know what I mean.
Kribulon 9?
Very well then. Former radicals.

,…but the sun wouldn’t set that day. I was about to say autumn when it didn’t seem autumn, it seemed cold. But autumn it was. A cold autumn. It doesn’t matter. What will come will come. There isn’t much that you can do with it anymore. Sometimes it seems that the cold will always be the cold, but it doesn’t stay that way. Cold is cold, true, but, and there’s always a but, it don’t. What were the people doing? Which ones? The fat people who acted smart but weren’t because they were fat. The skinny people who acted smart and secretly hated the fat people? The middle people who want to go to church. (What the hell do They do?), the lost? the beaten? The forever young? I don’t know. What do they do? What do any of them do?

But the sun would set that day. There had to be some reconciliation between the sun and the moon. Or the moons. Another ride on a magic flying carpet? Where would you go? Over mountains and cities at night under stars at day under sun. Where would you go? What would you see? Would you end up giving all your friends rides just to be nice until your flying carpet is so full that it falls heavily to the ground? Which friend would have to go first. Probably the fat one. This is why the skinny ones hate them so.

But at least we had property. And land. And we could go somewhere and everybody could live in harmony or dis-harmony as you would have it be or if. Land. But the only thing to do is dig, for the world will become too much for you, the modern man, the one who thinks that you can make money like dad did in the 1950s. Rare and getting rarer. There is too much for the likes of you to do with all that dough. The likes of me too. All of us. Every last living, breathing red-cent-lovin’ all of us. Leaves little for the rest of them.

But some places it seems like enough. Like if you have land and everybody can come to your land and everybody can live together freely and in peace. Is it possible? I would have to say that I think the answer is no. It seems that there is always one or two people who always insist on busting it all up. Sometimes the skinny people and the fat people get into a fight. I know, I know, everybody is supposed to get along, but sometimes skinny people hate fat people That Much. Sometimes people have different styles of extravagance, cleanliness and neatness. This is always a deal killer. Slobby Joe over there living round meticulous Mick. Clash. The border war. Maybe we just hate everybody and think that our little home town in somewheresvill nowheresville is the best thing in the world and we never should have left in the first place because the leaving made me a different person that nobody from nowheresville knows anymore. Or we each think that there is something to our “art” that is, I was going to say “better”, different. We see worlds in our worlds and we want to tell, but there is a line. Everybody wants to tell, but there is a line. You’re going to need to throw a show. You’re going to have to perform a ritual, but everybody will have to know and be a part in it, but you, from somewheresville, nowheresville, don’t want to impose. In the meanwhile you stew. I was going to say stu.

“Spectnothing!” You spew, Anton!
“Spect.” Didn’t mean nothing to Anton or “Stu.” Didn’t mean nothing to him at all. What would it matter if he “stewed.” Everybody needs to know that this is okay. This is “Anton.”

Good to meet you, Stu. I’m Delvidere, Brockton. Brock. I’m Brock.
Good to meet you Stu.
Never mind.


There is never no never no mind about it (he said). There would be something else involved, but it wouldn’t have to do with you or me or anybody reading or the next mountain ledge we need to peak over! What did I say? (another voice somewhere. Ssshh. Can you hear it? No, Jody, listen! There’s another voice in this cave!

` Yo! What is it Tarkenton?
You got jody over there?
You got my daughter over there Arlengetti! (my name was arlengetti because my forefathers owners were Italians named “Arlengetti.”

I think you do.
And the race was on.

Jody Tarkenton was sixteen when she met Arpin. Arpin Arlengetti was considered the best chess player, by far, that Wilmington had ever had. When they traveled down to Booth and played for State, Arpin was the last man standing. The trophy sat there in his living room, over the mantle, insisted upon by his mother Anne, a “semi” retired school teacher who took substitute jobs whenever she could. Her back pain was the reason and her weight. It was plain to see. Arpin’s mother Anne was fat.

Arpin! Where’s my cream?
I don’ Know! Shit!

A typical conversation at home, but passable. Arpin mostly sat in his room and either read or played his computer a game of chess. He couldn’t get internet where he lived and, besides, his mother wouldn’t be able to afford it. He had other siblings, all older than him and mostly gone from home. Where? St. Louis, Phillipsburg, Oakley and a brother out in Hollywood trying to make it as an actor. His sister Jane had become a nurses assistant and then a nurse and lived in a big house with her husband and four children in Phillipsburg. Their house had a whole acre of land and she kept some sheep in a little pen just so that her children could grow up learning how to love and care for things. Her kids are still small so we can’t yet say if she will ever end up eating any of them, which to Arpin seemed horrible. It was a wait and see game, one Arpin didn’t want to have to mull so he put it out of his mind like all the other things in the world that he didn’t want to have to mull, like if he would ever get a girlfriend, like if he would get in Case-Northwestern where he wanted to study constitutional law, would he ever ride the stern of his own small ship through choppy waters along a wild and exotic coastline, maybe Africa or Spain? He didn’t know. What more could he think on the subject except that it was all leading to something and sometimes adding the score is the hardest part. It is hard to know if what you are doing is something worth doing. Whether you are on the right track, what thing could happen that could break your heart and thereby keep you from your goals? The wrecked, the seemingly lost, the masses. Arpin joined his political science club where he got to that final conclusion: there can be misery within the masses.

Yoospect. You know! There isn’t any doubt about it. You know!


any room for here here? Or I just dreaming? Good a place as any to get off I spect. Hearing that word round the stratosphere. Almost conked me on the head with it outside Nebulous 3. Sh*t, if it weren’t for that sarbortulanator malfunction Kremulon would have had some bargain in the deal. Blown up his own race too, what a leader, what a *sshole.

Anyway, got some creamed yodel beak here, best creamed yodel beak you can get in your can, if youre lucky enough to get a can anymore. Mostly its all just tubes. All just m*therf*cking tubes. Haint enough.

Sh*t, Wilbur, that you?
That you?
Yeah, I’m here, so what
What happened to you. You was the smartest kid in the class.
I lost it.
You lost it?
I lost it, man. There was nothing to know. It was all just hype.
So you weren’t a boy genius?
No. that was all just hype. There’s nothing to know, man. There’s nothing to know.


laying upon the meticulous rounds of the hillock beside him, he saw.
Oh nothing
Just the breeze
The breath of the breeze
No, no more,
Oh Edie, how come
You know we’re so old
I know,
Oh I know you know, now you stay out of the shower.
I’m just combing down what’s left of the old hair I got on my old head. Dear be down with you in the coffin in a minute.
Anna marie

Published in: on October 26, 2009 at 5:10 pm  Leave a Comment  

They Were Found Righteous – Albert Jones

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite’z

They Were Found Righteous
a breakfast surreal by Albert Jones

Chapter 1

The Unintelligible Wrath of God

Usually the blank space, the vacuous middle, the unholy whole of what I am is like a secret passageway to a new place. Horses cavort then die then disappear, but then re-appear running thigh long and whispery in their cloudy passage. What hard place do their hooves scratch? None, for the horse is in dream, a lone representation of a thought not reached by me nor anybody else. It drifts away, does not run, for it cannot run. It can only drift, disperse. This is the mode of normalcy for me. For you? Maybe for you too. If a horse why not a llama? A lemur? A disc? An obelisk? Why not a centipede or just the legs of a centipede? This is how much the eyeball world knows when belief in a something further inside is, not forgotten, but accepted as sad, decrepit and scary. The inner world teems and it is better that these horse half-thoughts do not arise again. Trilobites. Why not trilobites? An image, any image, where you can dig in like a fat man at a crab feast for something new, something about you? A crocodile? A soft day to replace a sudden feeling imageless that you must face. Why? Why?

Job was told there was something bad that he must have done to have brought upon him such wrath from God. Job sat there and watched everything fall apart. What must he have done? He could not think of what it could have been. Nothing. He had done nothing wrong. He never left this sentiment because he couldn’t see anything but the truth. This fact is what made him a noble man in God’s eyes. He did not make himself believe something that wasn’t true so that he could gain favor with his oppressor. He couldn’t. His nature was simple. This nature is what got him into trouble in the first place. How could he have changed? The Devil made a sorry bet. Watery worlds. Deep far down worlds like in an ocean, cold, salty with beasts inside. All symbolic. All symbolic for you, but not you, not anymore, not since the pain came along and made all such visages fearful. A trilobite. Or a crab like the zodiac sign. Each could make you something more than you are, but you lose it in the thinking and the analytic isn’t so good anymore and why would you want to go there anyway, this world that possesses you and feeds you tiny morsels of meaninglessness, no context, just tiny morsels of meaninglessness. Dodgers at 4 o’clock. You read it in the paper. You’ve got to go to work now.

I’m a scuttly now, a bog, bugged, scuttly upon the floor. Found out about my outer limbs and feels the crackle of the box. No way to get a message through my back. That’s where the light comes in. Angels. You slowly lift your eyes and you see the dawn or is a wasteland come to haunt you? A past? There must be a past or a whole bunch of built up futures that never materialized, all in all, though, you can bet that it will look like a city on a hill, but you won’t bet on it, because, although white, it is crumbling, slowly crumbling and the sand is becoming chalky and split and you know that yesterday is today and you cannot catch up. It will not let you catch up. A sloth. A lemur. A sense of well-being barely remembered. At least you have a car.

A downward slope, a slide of sorts at the tip is the leap. The lip of the tip is a leap into sky and from there perhaps down. Who am I to guess. Perhaps up. The eyeball world tells you nothing that’s why we turn, why the eyeball looks away towards something new. The two are unconnected, this thing inside, the tip thing, the lip thing into sky and the eyeball thing, tomorrow, today, the why’s, the where’s, the how’s. You think you’ve found color? Mind you, you have not. This thing that you have found is as wordless as yesterday. You watch for your next thoughts and hope that it will come for words may form upon your lips. Then you will know. But that is the eyeball world, the turned away world where hope is all that you’ve got because there is nothing else. You need a mirror, you know, but also know that the mirror is a mirror and where is the where? The there? Here, you hope, it is here, somewhere, because if not then all you’ve got is today. Not a place to get an eyeball in.

But there are buckets and in these buckets lie piles and piles of cash and that’s where you’re supposed to go. Go to the buckets of cold, hard cash. Cold? No, not cold. Warm and pliable and love-producing, these buckets will bring you warm flesh with heart attached. It will bring you children and home and hearth and hope and expectation and quiet knowledge of life’s realities, but stalwart faith, too, and hope. Did I mention hope? Let the exercise continue upon the Lord. Green and smelly, good and faithful. Cash is the God of the world and the only God the world will let you worship. Choose another God, go ahead I dare you, you will see that the world will not allow it for very long. Christianity? Hell, you’d be in the streets. The eyes will look away. Muslim? Well, I wouldn’t really know, but money seems better than this too. Hinduism. Well, there, everyone is poor. Anyway, green and good and smelly and hard and there and present and heartbeat bringing, life affirming. I worship you. I worship you. I worship you. If I don’t I’ll be kicked out I know.

Out from the out in to the inside and then back out, strung, this path together by course thread marked. Still no sign of land. You don’t want feats. You want truth and love. This is all and tomorrow, when the eyeball is back, you will have to make do. Another day is what it brings, no mirror, yet the day. Tomorrow, but no today. Past loves are gone and you are here and your eyeball is dead, or if not dead, un-seeing enough to seem dead. Unseeing enough to make you want to sleep. You attached to the eyeball by tether and synapse to heart and body where fat is becoming who you are and bags are spilling under your eyes because You Can’t See Yourself.

Oh, well. Money is there (although it’s not). Money is there and you had better believe it. Respect it. Money? Money? Money? Money? What does this mean? It means warm cars and heat. Mountain roads yet safety. Sleeping children and a warm smile and true love beside you. It means family appreciation and your rightful place. It limits doubt, no, kills it. Your smile seems like something meant to be. God was good to you and all because of money, money, money, money, money, money, money.

Slip sided because the memory of sex is gone, you are in four rooms, between four walls rather, where these rooms, or walls rather, wait beside you. At least they are there although they are much like the hoofless horse and then they are gone and you don’t know why you would see them in your Mind’s Eye. For if a hoofless horse can run and a four-walled room (s) can be then the inner space, the gasping space, gurgling space can be filled more, but not with feeling, this you know, not with feeling anymore because when feeling comes then you will know that you are something beyond the other thing. Money will become something again and you will raise your mouth to the skyh to try and capture some with a smile, a moneyrainy smile that catches rainmoney smile and you will be happy because the cragspace of nothing brown where walls and horses non-eyeball placeness beckons you will know. Simply, then, you will know…perhaps.

Well then back to the box. Slow down and take heed because back to the box you go when memory, good stuff, the stuff that is good for you to remember not bad, hints at itself again like a vague whisper a mountain lion stepping soft in snow memory asking for you again by name. and you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember that you remember. Memory of old days return again and you know that if this memory is here that another can be formed but boxes and horses, dead horses, I might add and eyeballs and you and me and us and we and money and this and that and the other thing and the thing beyonjd that that you didn’t want to talk about and thw whirl and the world and the now and the then and the how and the when and hen and the chipmunk and back to you and me and us and we and so it goes and so it goes and so it goes…

Remember when the monkey wrench was thrown into the plan? Remember when the surf carried me away and I didn’t come back for ten years? Remember how I thought that I wasn’t human and therefore couldn’t have relationship because relationship was between two humans and I was not human, but something else? Remember how the sky turned dark because that is what it was said it must do to denote the feeling that was being bandying about, and it stayed dark for two years? Remember when we had sex in the rain? Remember how we thought that this mattered, before the period when I thought I wasn’t real and that maybe I could live in a box and ask questions of a God that didn’t seem to be there and when the day ended, as it always did for you because you were real, then all things would end and a little less light would slip into the picture so that the picture was of rain and steep hills and everywhere you looked you didn’t see. That much you knew by now, that as a not human you did not see and you wanted back (me) membership in the club because not being human is not all that it’s cracked up to be thank you very much.

And then it happened anyway and you saw that you did not see and after years and years of trying to see anyway, that is, become human again anyway, you saw that you did not see, that sight was a something that was no longer allowed to you because of the goddamned way that everything goes down until you don’t want to see, the eyeball is closed to the other world. The eyeball knows better than to see and you guess from then on it. Your days continue, of course, but it is all of the guess. Guess the color of that, the temperature of that, the mood of this, the meaning of that until all dead horses and celestial boxes become solidified in a someplace that is not meant to be deciphered. No more answers for you, he who tried to leave the human race but found that he had no other race in which to go. Pity though the teller of the tales of woe for such persons are unwanted, usurpers and much done before. Sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, sanitize, Hence one of the reasons for “ending it all.” But not.
As for the soliloquy. Who asked? Nobody that’s who. That’s why that is that. That which is not the other that that. Word play. Meaningless. But is. It. Then. When all is then. Now. Belly far heaven go wherever cloud be roam. That that. Or vortex, something more to go for, go far for when you don’t even know which thread is here, what world connected. Far into the unknown then while butterfy capillaries and caterpillars green greet you again, notice you are on the periphery and your words are letters first, before thought, and thought, hidden, dances unnoticed, single and solitary, so that you can beep alone where code is duke.

Even the –less can be mapped out like a mountain craggy image up then down and hidden by clouds-even that. Just because all eyes are gone doesn’t mean that there is not seeing. You have the vortex, again, the mountain hole wind trees dirt deer swirling down into the maelstrom. That too can be mapped. Shown. Even though eyes are still closed by all, no seeing yet sight. Whose? Whose?

Those who did rock and the hard block hope and the dyke role is the one with the suit the one with the sack, guns in backs, movie live in. wicked. It’s a wicked where we live in.

B;oblip Industries. Clipping now. Hicking now. Wicked sound, six pack I’m sipping now. It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s cool. Whoo hoo. Whoo. Hoo.
Whoo. Hoo!

Ya’ll 2002 transplant. One! Hzhzhzhz .

They used the beat from garnier’s fruictese and got national radio play…but they’re drinking beer!

Righteous! Dude!

Published in: on October 25, 2009 at 5:21 pm  Leave a Comment  

Albert Finds Jed

I hung up and waited. A half hour went by. I went into the donut shop and ordered a coffee and sat down. There was a cute Hispanic girl behind the counter, a little overweight, but cute. The room was overdone, as all Dunkin Donuts are, with an orange motif of plastic artificiality. The stench from the donuts made it difficult to breathe, and I longed for the girl as I sat there, but I had no words to explain it to her and just watched her wipe and wipe and wipe. It is the lot of man to wipe and wipe and wipe. I was doing nothing but the same in New York City, trying to wipe the world of the fruits of its sins by finding the uncleanly source to clean it. Now I was in Fort Lee, New Jersey, most likely being stood up by Helen Capowitz of Moxy Priestess, who probably knew the truth about my brother Jed, and I didn’t care anymore.
Each minute that passed, thirty-five, then forty, then an hour, I lost my sense of care, the care that holds you up, like the donut girl, when you wipe somebody else’s counter for the equivalence of its crumbs. I could have called back, but I didn’t. I sat there for two hours, knowing what Helen’s decision meant until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Do you want to…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, because I didn’t know what I was trying to say to the girl.
“I’m sorry?” she said, moving up to the counter slowly. She had a name tag that said Liza.
“Do you want to take a break?” I asked her.
“I’m all alone here.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything, and looked at me in such a way that I knew right then that I was in bad shape. It seems that all of it was about me now. Somehow I was wrong. Back home everybody knew that Jed was dead except for me, and this girl somehow understood that now I understood something about my life that I hadn’t understood before I walked in, until I had asked her if she wanted to take a break. I understood that that was all Jed had ever wanted to do, too.
“I can take a short one,” she said.
She took off her apron and filled two cups of coffee.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
She brought them over to the table and sat down opposite me.
“Stood up, huh?”
She just drank from her coffee and looked out the window. Neither of us spoke.
“Well, I better get back,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said.

I had to go then. I threw away my cup and walked outside, adjusting my pack on my back and looking around at the night that held no bed for me, no resting place. My funds were low and I could probably stay in a motel, but there were none around.
“Baby bro.”
A chill went through my very face and up my shoulder blades. I turned around. Jed stood there wearing an old cowboy hat beside the Priestess’ little red Mustang.
He laughed and flicked away his cigarette and walked towards me.
“Yeah…Jed,” he said, making fun of the way he said it.
Then he hugged me.
“What the fuck, man,” I said, and I couldn’t help it, but I started crying like a baby and couldn’t stop. All the hurt inside for having lost him came up on me and I wanted to kill him, to punch him in the fucking face for doing it to me, but I couldn’t, because I loved him too goddamned much.
“You fuck!” I screamed.
“I’m sorry, bro. I’m sorry, baby. Don’t cry, man. Don’t cry, Albert.”
And I knew he meant it, that he was sorry for making me look like a fool for all those years when everybody said he was dead and I knew he wasn’t, because how could Jed just go and leave me like that, and mama, and everybody, and just fall off the world and not be gone, and not tell anybody because he thinks his pain more important than anybody elses? I stopped crying and wiped the tears off my face and looked at him and to my surprise Jed was smiling, his eyes moist.
“You fuck,” I said again, and I started to laugh even as I cried.
“Yeah, I think you could fairly call me that, Al. I am a fuck. Always been a fuck. You’re fair,” he started laughing with me and our cheeks were side by side and neither one of us knew whose tears belonged to who. My head felt light and I thought I might need to sit down. Jed took me inside and I sat down on a chair. The girl came over and wiped my face off. I couldn’t believe it. It made me a Dunkin Donuts fan for life. Jed sat down across from me. Helen stood by the door. She looked good, wearing something yuppie-ish that cost a lot of money. I thought, oh shit, and was exhausted and numb.
Jed looked at me from under his cowboy hat. Something had happened to his eyes. They were all wrong because they were all right. No more Richard Ramirez, no more tight knot holding him in like a girdle holds in a woman’s belly. I was just confused, holding back from saying anything because I thought that if I did it would be unfair and chase Jed away again because everybody knew Jed was scared and that’s why he did heroin in the first place. I felt I needed to be strong, but sitting there looking at his eyes from under his hat I thought, Jesus, I’m the one who needs help now. Look at me. I’m the one. He looks fine. And he did. He wore a silver earring and feather band around his hat like some fucking Stevie Ray Vaughn or something. His clothes were clean and he wasn’t stoned.

I looked at him, and realized it right then, too, that I was looking at him from the place that he used to look at the world when he was all fucked up. In other words, I could barely see him for what he had become. I had gotten to the place that I needed to get to in order to find him and yet it wasn’t the same place that he was at anymore. I hated him for making me look for him, hated him for doing this to his little brother, for having a little brother at all, and making that little brother love him, yet leaving like that, and not even being dead. I wanted to laugh, but I was too disgusted.
“Why didn’t you call?” I asked.
Jed said nothing.
“Jed, why didn’t you call?” I said again.
Again, Jed turned away. My fist came out so hard from my side that I only knew that I’d punched him after the fact.
“Goddamn you!” I screamed, and I got up and walked out of there, slammed the door of Dunkin Donuts, all the while knowing I loved that girl who had wiped my face, wishing I hadn’t slammed the door, but knowing that Jed would have to come home now.
And he did. And I had enough time to prepare my mother for the visit so that when he finally did show up at our door, with Helen Capowitz driving her red car, and, would you believe it, a baby girl named Minnie, my mama wouldn’t fall down in shock and die. In this way I rescued my family and was able to get serious about my rock opera, Petals.

Published in: on October 24, 2009 at 5:08 pm  Leave a Comment  

A Short Film

A man is on the internet. The camera records what is going on on the computer. He had been looking at the news of the death of his wife. He goes to a Facebook equivalent. Suddenly he is given a suggestion to add her as a friend. He presses Yes after a moment of thinking about it. Then he says, ah, what am I doing? And pushes away from the computer and cries.

Next day he arrives back in front of the computer. He has been befriended by his wife. He is about to pass it up when he goes back to it and wonders about it. He presses the connection. He sees: HOW ARE YOU?

He is taken aback.

Who is this?

He sits there and waits. Nothing. He closes the computer and leaves. Next day. Night. Lamp on. He opens it. He goes right to it.

Who do you think?

I don’t know. Suddenly he is im’d. It’s me , stupid. It’s Lydeen, sweetheart. It’s me. It really is. You’ve got to believe me.

Who is this? This isn’t funny.

But it’s me. Donny, it’s me. I’m here.

He closes the computer.

He’s at the office. He is making a paper airplane as he glances over at his computer which is dark. He is saddened and troubled as he makes the airplane and looks at the computer. He finishes and flies it at the camera.

He sits in the chair. He opens it up. He turns it on.

This is written:

Dearest Donald,

It is true. I have passed. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I am in a better place now. I can’t explain it exactly….

He closes the computer, gets up, unplugs it from the wall. Carries it outside with him. Ends up on a bridge. Holds it over the bridge as though he is going to drop it.

Sitting at a bar or a coffee house. Doing economic tables only. No internet.

Back home.. He opens up the computer and starts writing this to his new friend:

Only because I understand that man does not live without depths unfathomable will I allow myself the luxury of entertaining your existence as the truth. Who knows? Weirder things have happened, I’m sure. If not, then this is it and I am privy to it. I am the one chosen to tell the world that there is “an Other side” and I will have to accept that, so, in this giving spirit, I will allow you a chance. Also, because I am desperate and don’t care much anymore anyway. Let’s play.

He closes it.

Sits with a psychiatrist.

So, you talk with your wife?
Okay, okay, I just wanted to confirm that with you. Your father in law pushed you into this?
So far you are only what I have read on these notes. Bah. So, what’s going on?
My wife has gone ahead and prepared a mansion for us, well, not her, but God, just like the Bible said, but it’s not a mansion, but something she can’t explain very well or I can’t understand because it’s a different dimension of some sort.
What does that mean? A different dimension?
Well, it’s like I was on a platform over here and way over there was someone else was on a platform, but there were a million miles between us and yet we could hear each other’s voices. That voice would get a little wavey after awhile and would get netherworldly, I suppose you could say, but worldly nevertheless and my wife is talking to my like that, from there, from over there in those netherworlds, well, netherworlds to us because we’re alive. We’re netherworlds to Lydeen. That’s my wife. Lydeen.
I see.
No, not really.
I want to and we’re just starting.
What else?
Nothing else. That’s it. No spaceships, nothing else. She just writes me and I write her back.
Oh this isn’t aural? You know, you don’t hear her?
Oh, no, she comes in on Spaceface.

The doctor rolls her eyes.

I saw that.
I know. I know. It didn’t say that on here.
I don’t know your process here. That’s you guys.
I know. I know. Spaceface.
Yup. I know this sounds dumb.
It does.
And obvious. Someone is playing a joke on me, right?
I know. Logical. Logical. My wife is gone five months now. Someone read the obit, saw my name and said, hey, a big laugh. And if it really was Lydeen why would she do that and make me look crazy, like I can very easily see it does. I’m not blind here.

He stops and takes a drink of water.

I’m not blind. I’m not blind.
No, no. You’re not blind. I know that, Mr. Preston.
No, I’m not blind. I’m not by God.

He opens the computer:


There, this is the The now. The there and the here and when we see each other again, enough of the little hole and spaceface and be. I’m sorry: BE! Yes, then this and we and soon and Yes. YES. Soon. Don’t worry. Each has its spacetime. You/Us cosmic memory. Future/Past. Yes.


Saw the doctor today. Said I should stop seeing you. Thought that anyway, because she saw that I saw the stupidity in it. You are someone making fun of me, that whole thing. I believe you, but weary of days of not being able to see you. At first it was play, but now it is not.

He sends and closes the computer.

Montage of their days together. A true love montage with music.

He sits there at the computer again. Different day. He opens the letter.


Will in time oh go be by again for us. Will go again. This time within and then again for us. You and I wonder again can gain this gain again. You’ll see. Flipping out gleefully and now…release you lamb…go…again…and remember…IheartU. I heart U very much. I do.


Goodbye then you, turtle, into the mysterioso of grand life. IheartU2.

The man closes the computer and smiles, gets up and leaves.

Published in: on October 22, 2009 at 6:02 pm  Leave a Comment  

Where When Alone?

Before the night fell the grasses swayed. All life was somber and still. A cricket bleated alone as crickets always do, this one, too early to sing, waiting for night as the orange sun disappeared behind the mountain.

The water of the lake was smooth, not a ripple, grasses grew out of there too. Tall grasses sticking up like trees with thick stems and the brown, very brown, dark brown almost browner than the trunks of the trees on the shore stalks, as I said, stood perfectly still.

What happens when the stopping begins? Eyes wide open we seek movement. The poets always sing of themselves in the wisps of winds and sways of leaves, but when selves disappear the remaining former proof lives on, soulless, unknowing, lost.

Too much silence can kill a man says Huxley. But Huxley doesn’t know anything. He cuts corn down when seasons of corn cutting come. He rushes out to strip the land and comes home a richer man for a season, the good season, in between the times of waiting and loneliness.

The poets are always looking for friends in nature. Somehow they know how to relate. Sunshine becomes God and moon the almighty mother. Loneliness doesn’t grip them. They don’t need the flesh and blood of their soul sisters or their brothers. We all fall down.

And stories, expanding in underwater silence, our talent’s bubbles bursting upon the water’s skin. If we could tell our stories, let our stories come up and be as real to each other as they are to our all too often unknowing selves, then we could breathe.

But breath is but another dream, another wasted thought to the drowning man, his story and his being watching the round orb of the sun blur and decrease. Eyes on deck. Keep watching says you, but the poet knows that even the underworld is there for him to relate to. Even then.

Published in: on October 21, 2009 at 1:22 am  Leave a Comment  

Find the Priestess

I walked out of the building thinking about the Priestess, but tired of it quickly. She lived in New Jersey. I just didn’t have the energy to go there and hear her deny she knows where Jed is another time. I got on a bus heading for the white part of town and didn’t get off it until I saw the Empire State Building. I sat on a curb outside a liquor store and smoked five cigarettes. Night was falling fast. The dot went as slowly inside the huge square than it seemed a dot should be allowed. Night fell. No calls were made except one and the phone line was busy again. Slit had plain, flat out lied to me, because that’s what guys named Slit do.
When I called my mama in the morning she screamed and screamed at me over those long- bird perching wires of America that connect our tinny voices with our feeble hearts and the hearts of those we love. I told her that I had a meeting with Andrew Lloyd Webber about my rock opera, Petals, which was about Princess Diana, a fact I have already mentioned. I reminded her of the validity and universal scope of the work: a) because it was Diana, and b) because I was trying to save the soul of Henri Paul who killed her. I told her Andrew Lloyd Webber was the only one who could understand me putting a flying saucer into a rock opera about Princess Di. She knew why I’d come, but she didn’t let on, and she wished me luck in my meeting with Webber. I’d changed my story since telling her I was going to someday find Jed in New York City. It was easier to concoct a good old lie. I think she feared I would find him then she would have to deal with having her son back with all the problems he’d naturally bring. Actually, it’s because she didn’t want to know that he was dead.

A week went by of wandering. Then two weeks. I visited a few more crack houses, but he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t jamming in any of the rock clubs either. I scuttled along New York City with a bag on my back. My hotel was paid for, and as I left, I knew I’d never be back. I already had my return ticket. It had never left my wallet. I made my way into the big bus station they call The Port Authority and went to a window to find out my gate. It was then that I noticed a sign behind the head of the black woman selling tickets. Fort Lee, New Jersey – C2- 4:30 p.m. On Time. That’s where the Priestess lived. Helen Capowitz. I’d almost forgot.
“One for Fort Lee, please,” I said.
The woman took my fifteen dollars and gave me a stub and pointed me the way. It felt good to get out of the city and see trees again. I never figured out what made people live in a place like New York City, especially all those poor people. It was ugly, and exciting only to those who could afford it. I don’t know how they managed it. I would have killed somebody by now if I had been raised there, I’m sure.

My head felt like it weighed fifty pounds as I watched the world go by through the tinted glass of that bus. New Jersey was a place where people went to get away from the city, but it was just as crowded in its own way. Houses were crammed among the trees. No Indians lived here anymore and all it made you think about while driving through it was that the world had become too much for itself, too crowded, ultimately too heartless to sustain itself in any meaningful way. I thought about Helen Capowitz again. Moxy Priestess herself. I’d never actually met her. I’d only talked to her on the phone. She sounded alright, like she cared about Jed. Now I wondered about their relationship. If Jed was alive who then was this lying Moxy Priestess? After being in New York for almost three weeks and meeting some of the most desperate people I’d ever met, it seemed that anything was possible. Moxy Priestess. What was the Priestess all about anyway? I remember the logo, a woman’s black shoe coming down on top of the world. She fully went for the female power trip thing, applying rock and roll the way rock and roll was meant to be played, what with Jed playing it.
I never thought much about Helen Capowitz, Moxy Priestess. I always just thought about Jed being the engine of that band, the music, the Eddie Van Halen, the thing that would always keep it alive. But I’m wrong about that. Moxy had as much to do with their success with that boot thing and all as Jed did. But who was she? A Jewish girl from New Jersey who’d made the world believe she was something she ultimately was not, a powerful woman. If she had been really powerful she would have been able to help my brother. The whole concept of Moxy Priestess was one of feminine defensiveness and I couldn’t respect that. I don’t respect those who live in fear from others or those who lie, which she did if Jed is alive and she actually does know, like The Lady thinks she does.
But she must have had some kind of power over Jed. I remember watching the videos, Jed standing there under the lights, slouched over, picking on his guitar, his cigarette dangling from his lips, the self-contained rocker. That was Jed. He didn’t give a shit what anybody thought of him, except it seems now, possibly, the Priestess. As I moved over those roads and hills of New Jersey I kept thinking to myself what an idiot I had been. The Priestess was lying. I knew it now. I just knew.
I got off near the Fort, a real army base, in Fort Lee. I went to a phone at a Dunkin Donuts and looked up the number of the Priestess in my book in which I had been collecting numbers for ten years. Capowitz. I called her and she answered. She sounded like my mother.
“Hello, is this Helen Capowitz?”
“This is she.”
“Hi, I’m Albert Jones, Jed’s brother…”
“Oh my god.”
There was a silence on her end that I didn’t intrude upon. The length of the silence answered my questions and when I finally spoke I knew that she would have to invite me over.
“I’m sorry?” I said, as if she knew something.
“No, it’s just that, well, I’ve been thinking about Jed lately.”
“Me too. Helen, I’m in town. Can we meet?”
There was another silence.
“Hold on,” she said. She put the phone down and a moment later she picked it up again.
“Okay. Albert?”
“You’re in town? Fort Lee?”
Because I was listening for notions of Jed in her voice, I heard the other phone pick up, but only because I was listening so astutely.
“Yes, come over. Where are you?”
I told her.
“I’ll come get you. Wait there.”

Published in: on October 18, 2009 at 7:41 pm  Leave a Comment  

Doubt – Jed

When Albert finished the rock opera back before he’d found me, the world was a better place somehow. Without the world’s teardrop there is no demand for investigation. Albert, falling into the placid stream, like a cork bouncing down the rocks and into the river, down and down further, found that to float is the most necessary of detractions. So he kept a steady supply of marijuana by his side as he wrote Petals, but he got further and further away from it. He began to study books about the nature of creativity so that he could know for sure whether or not Petals truly belonged to him or whether it belonged to Bob Hope, that is, marijuana intoxication.

Me and Albert became friends again. I never held it against him for hitting me. I’m glad he did it. It would have taken a long time to get the anger out and a lot of bullshit discussion would have had to have taken place. I’d just as soon be socked once for a lifetime of bullshit I gave him than have to deal with the natural variation of moods one would expect in somebody so abandoned and abused by his, well, I was going to say father and me, but, really, it’s more like God himself if you think about how Albert took it into his soul.

Albert was always a dreamer type. When he was a child he would lie on his bed and shake his head back and forth and sing songs to himself. Those were his first rock operas, I guess. He was always a big kid, but really gentle. Taller than the others, but the last one to be picked because he just looked like he didn’t care, I guess. I was always the first picked. I did the picking. So I was pretty protective of him, but back in the late 70s you had a lot of drugs going around. I mean everybody was doing something. And I was wrapped up in it. I had a connection with a guy from the Mexican Mafia. He connected me with a guy from the Chinese Mafia and I didn’t give a shit about any of them because I considered myself the Tennessee mafia of one. And I was a bad ass to prove it. I did some harm to more than one person and that was still as a teenager.

But then I got out. I realized the music was the most important thing and I got out through sheer will and also through a sort of desperation of needing smack by that time, but not being able to face the fact and especially with my mama on my case all the time. I couldn’t think straight at all. So I walked downstairs, already having put half a shot in my arm and said “Look, ma” and shot the rest in. I’d thought about it for a few minutes after I took the first little bit and it then hooked up to the last little bit that still remained in the needle and I thought to myself that I couldn’t let the show be seen by only myself and then I thought I was floating when I was walking down the stairs and that that was a sign by God that I was to do what I was to do, which was nothing more than exert my freedom by getting myself kicked out of my house. My guitar was already in the car and a moment later I was too. Driving off I looked back and I saw Albert come outside and look at me as I tore off and then he sat down by the gate and petted the dog. That was the last time I talked to him or saw for almost fifteen years.

It’s almost criminal what it seems God will allow to happen in order to teach you a lesson. That’s all I can figure short of God reaching into my head and straightening everything around Himself. But he wasn’t about to do that. They made the Bible to make sure everybody knows that things don’t come easy. Well, I sure found that out the hard way, maybe a little too hard, but anyway, what I’m trying to say is that we’ve all had our moment of doubt when we thought God had abandoned us. I wonder if Teardrop ever had that moment of doubt as he climbed up the wrong side of the mountain to get home to me. And the next question in logical sequence is whether, if Teardrop did have that doubt, why did he still make it? That’s one I’ll leave to the theologians.

Published in: on October 13, 2009 at 6:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

Henry Mills Diary


Page one. I think I’m out of Tennessee. Got a good spot in this freight. A fellow said it was headed to California. Say there is gold there in some places. Not interested. I’m sorry I gave the rest of you away to Jones. Don’t matter. I don’t need to remember much anymore. The words I write here and along the way are new words. The point of all this isn’t remembering what was, but what is and might be someday. The wheels been lulling me to sleep, but haven’t been able to do it quite yet. I got a good view of the stars and even though the wind is cold it’s not freezing and I got me a blanket and a bottle. Got some bread and cheese in my bag somewhere, but I don’t want to dig it out. Just like riding along like this. Wonder why I didn’t do it sooner. Couldn’t do it sooner. One thing I’m not going to do anymore is lie to myself.
I got the world behind me now. Cut my losses and went. Not much to think about really. Feel like I’ve done enough thinking to last me a million years. Got enough thinking under my belt to be ranked with the great philosophers, but it ain’t thinking with answers that I’ve had or I’ve got. It’s not that I got anything in my head from my experience of loss that’s going to teach me something that’s going to make my life better. Well, maybe that’s not true. It got me here in this night sky going to the ocean. That’s something.
The girls are in me like those dinosaurs they say walked around the earth millions of years ago. They’re huge. If I tried to look around them i’d fail. I’d just fail. So I’m not going to. If I don’t fight seeing them I see through them and they look like stars and skies and black trees that are passing. Sometimes they look like house lights or cows standing still beside the tracks under the moonlight. If I don’t let them be the world around me then they become the world inside of me and, well, I’ve cried, rather, I’ve tried to cry them out of me at those points but I ain’t never been able to do it quite right, not all the way. They just make me look at the bottle. Gotta get some sleep.

July 18, 1870

Another day. Still the same day since I wrote in you last, Diary, which was about five hours ago. Got a little sleep, but I got cold and this floor is hard. Got a good warm feeling from the whiskey. A good way to come out of sleep to face the cold. Got the stars still and the train’s steady roll, it’s a fufufufu sound and it lulls you. It really does. My head wanders. It’s like I’m sitting here trying to hold on to something, but my head wanders. What does it mean? I can’t place nothing on it that’s meaningful. But I got a hum in me. I’m more of a hum than a man it seems. I lean into this sound in my head and it’s got no real melody but it’s a tune of some sort. Not no tune like I ever heard before. It’s a tune of loss like I never heard before but that don’t matter because it’s mine and mine alone. It’s like the sound of the girls if they have a sound now. I know it’s their memory, maybe their ghosts. I don’t want to think of this. I want silence. But my head turns towards the tune. I feel myself giving into it and I don’t know if it’s going to be my end or not. I feel myself going mad. I have to shake my head sometimes to pull out of it. It’s so peaceful, but it’s the girls. I can feel it’s the girls and every time I do it I miss them and I think that maybe I should jump off this train. But I ain’t dying before I see the ocean. Goddam those forces that would take the ocean from me before I even see it.
I got mad just then. I think that’s good. I need to get more mad more often, but I don’t know how long it’s going to do any good. I feel off. More later.

Published in: on October 11, 2009 at 6:15 pm  Leave a Comment  

The P*t Stories

The P*t Stories – By Albert Jones

Trey didn’t know better.

No did you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.

Alfred and Ted Molina on whether it was he or the other one who got the other hooked on pot.

These are the pot stories, as dreamed by me in years past and the present. I don’t know what to say. There are no words to describe the pot stories. These are the times that I was really very high on…pot.

The Pot Stories By Joey Kantor

In the beginning, of course, there was light…

300 for the responsibility

(no word sounds better)

So fast usually they are, faster than the speed of light. Faster than the guitar player for Molly Hatchett, faster than that…


Yes Yes, yes, I’m mike taylor. So Yeas, I think that you should know sir that I have something you need.

Did you get me from the phone book?


Then how do you know me.

I don’t sir, its just that…

Then why you calling me?


Why you calling me?


Why you calling me?

I, I, because I want to sell you something.

What do you want to sell me?

Life insurance.

Life insurance!

Yes, sir, life insurance.

(Jesus Mabel motherfuckin gollee…)



Calm down.

I’m calmed down.

No, sir, you’re not calmed down. Now, I have my limits.

You’re limits?

Yes, my limits.

Well, what are your limits?

I think you should know sir that I am a jiujitzu on t.v.


I am a juijitzu on tv.




Yes. On Tv.

Great. Well, that changes everything.

What do you mean, sir.

I Needed! Life insurance !

Always that end. A friend of mine used to call this “a ZiNGeR!!!&*(&*(%

Status: Petals.

This devious plan of “Petals: A Rock Scenario or The American Tribute to Princess Diana” has been unleashed. My dastardly plot to get published is in play. Who’d a thought, me, a poor shlep from Tennessee could get published. But things are in the works. Things Are going on. I can feel it.

Albert Jones unconscious stream of thought at 4:30 p.m. right after his get off work nap and watched the shadows on his walls and the light in the window and the trees and in the cage on the table, sometimes, the hamster spinning in his cage. No, these were the netherworlds for Albert, Albert didn’t know any better, but to write his life down while sitting in his room all of a dreamer only, really, no Hemingway, no Fitzgerald, no Steinbeck, no, not even any Steinbeck. Sad really. Pathetic to some, he knew. While the others are out spinning in the adventure of truly adventurous places like Paris and Barcelona, Albert sat in his room and read and wrote and grew a long face and thought too much and sometimes smoked the weed just like a lot of people these days.,..but, anyway…

The birth of the Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

I, Albert Jones, do solemnly swear that I started The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite on April 13, 1997 in the hereby town of Millsville, TN under the…

I, Albert Jones, do solemnly swear that I began the fklc in Millsville, Tennessee on the 13th of April, 1997.

Dick Nixon on why he thinks the fargo knwtoritz’z literary campsite somehow made a difference.

I didn’t say that! I didn’t say that! I didn’t say that!

Honey, can we turn this off.

Sure, dear.

Great.I get sick of watching Nixon.

Me too. Turn it off.

Why? This is the question that has plagued me since the beginning of my inquiries into the factual statements having been made about the…

(shutup, shutup…

hey look lady this isn’t none of your business just watch the show, the fklc or whatever the fuck it is and turn around.


How many titles do you have, Mr. Kantrowitz?

Oh, eight, nine, hundred. Oh, that many? Yes, there was Thy Soul’s Immensity, Babybirds, The Fear, no I never finished The Fear, The P*t Stories, the Fargo Kantrowitz’z literary campsite, The Myth of Nancy, Lullaby Lovers, you know, others…

Dwayne, before you go, could you make sure that Esther gets me that latte the way I ordered it?

Sure, Nancy.

Thanks, and Steve… Uh huh. Have a nice day.

You too. You too. See ya later.

Toodloo. Now where were we.

We were talking about how many books I wrote.

Oh, and you are…

Steve! How much?

Ten minutes.

Okay, gotcha.

You were saying, better, lets save it for the interview.

They sit there in silence. An aid brings Kantrowitz a soda which he gladly accepts. They sit there in silence together, when, eventually, she looks over to him.





Dan, their chemistry is remarkable. Look at them. C’mere, c’mere. Do you see it?

What, it’s the talent.

No, look, look at that. Look at the way she’s sitting. Look how he’s reacting. They don’t need to say a word. Can you imagine if you had them together in a movie or something, maybe they’d make a great band, if they’re musicians but they’re probably not or…

Cindy, I gotta go.

From The Myth of Nancy And hence the temporary ending of The P*t Stories by me Albert Jones on this, the third day of August of the year of the our Lord, 2003.

Published in: on October 10, 2009 at 3:25 am  Leave a Comment  

Of the Ladies II – Jed

Now that I think back on it I realize that I wasn’t in my right mind. I realize now that if I stopped the drug I could start my way home to Moxy. Whether or not she would have had me back at that time, this was during our longest separation of almost two years, was the question.

I finally took that step, but the journey towards it was such a one that to speak of it is to put yourself into a predicament, because when you go where I went you put yourself outside of the normal realm. Time stops. Months turn into years. It’s like being in a perpetual dream, but then, after awhile, your dream starts losing power, you don’t have much to think about.

Having forsaken the idea of the future your desires wither, the outer edges of your universe start to crumble and burn. You whittle yourself down to the bare being and at your core you realize that the netherworlds that you belong to are claiming you, that you are mortal becomes a deep seated feeling until you sometimes dream that you are withering, that your face could peel off, that you are already skeleton, that you are already dead.

It is that sense of having reached the point of no return that keeps you within your isolated, protected world. At some point you stop blaming, too. I stopped blaming my mother and even my father for dying. I took it all into myself and realized that I was just a weak specimen of human being. I had lost all will power. Any good thing I had had in my life I had forsaken, like Moxy. When I sat there and thought about these things it was like the thoughts were doing battle with each other, but in some far distant galaxy. The night in which they belonged was peaceful, though, so I tried to look away, but I could always hear them. I could always hear the gods of war clashing high above me, but they became tinny and I would look away again.

I know now that these were the sounds of Moxy calling me. But she demanded so much. She wanted me clean. I wasn’t done at that time, not by a long shot. I felt I was on a journey of discovery. It’s like I was a child playing dead, like I was hunkering down close to the grave so that I could hear its meaning, soak it up. Moxy was all life. We’d taken to two different roads. I was the seeker getting more and more lost. Moxy lived in the real world. I had begun to melt around her, felt inadequate, and yet had determined that my purpose was not wrong, but only different and of the utmost importance. I was simply seeking, trying most of all, I realize now, to find the meaning behind my father’s death. That really fucked me up. I responded to it the way that Moxy responds to the world, but she doesn’t respond out of a sense of tragedy, but a sense of adventure of never having bowed down to an enemy, to always having faced her fears. I thought I was doing that by saying fuck you to the world. And that’s what I did. I said fuck you to the world and I was a bad ass mother fucker for a long time, but when I got the heroin going into my veins full time there with the lady, I started to wither, the defenses that I had made me who I was started failing, they were like muscles that I had spent years building up and then, one by one, they started withering away.

I remember sometimes shooting up and then when I was peaceful enough to go outside, stepping into the sunshine of Harlem and actually having the sunlight frighten me. I couldn’t look anybody in the eye. I felt like I was surrounded on all sides. I was a scared doe, wrapped inside of my leather jackets and behind my shades. I would walk and feel like I wished I could lift up off of the ground and float above everybody else. The soles of my feet contained questions about the meaning of each step. I was jittery and hollow, but I kept up the facade of worldliness so never got hurt. Anybody could have squashed me like a tick.

So that’s where I lived, in incense filled and darkened rooms, the Lady in her negligee beside me, our dancing in wild delirium together to sitars and synths, falling to the floor in each others arms, having tantric sex, just holding each other and staring into each other’s eyes for hours and all the while Moxy in New Jersey, me hoping through all of it that somehow I was just in the middle of a bad dream, that this ecstasy that I thought I was finding with the Lady was just a side excursion and that Moxy’s memory would fail and she would forgive me when I finally got back to her, which, oddly, I never doubted I would even though all signs pointed to the very real possibility that I had fucked things up with my wife for good. No, this wasn’t a possibility. This was a fact. I’ll never understand how facts can become lies. Moxy should have been gone forever. And Teardrop should have been dead. Once again, angels.

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 9:40 pm  Leave a Comment