Manhattan Pigeons (Whiskey by Orlo Newbould)

I remember chasing birds. Brooklyn Lager and an old friend, a cousin, I followed him between the parked taxis. His half of a baseball ticket hung from a worn back pocket. I misplaced mine earlier and we couldn't go back to our seats. So we chased Manhattan pigeons with our hats.

Manhattan pigeons. Cleaner than the woman. So I was told. My pastor visited the city years ago and told horror tales of the girls. Don't bother he said. Coals in your lap. It was breezy April and our heart rates were slowed by whiskey. Coals in my lap sounded cozy. Instead my cousin and I dove after pigeons, after all we were both wearing wedding bands.

Half the money gone now, no cock-blocks from the pulpit to tame my nature, I dream of another chance to chase birds. In Manhattan. Wouldn't misplace the ticket stub either. Coffee would be wise too, a warm, wide-eyed pursuit of feathers. No desperation. No coals. A warm blanket of glitter-dotted flesh to whisper me tales of tomorrow.

Tuppence A Bag (Champgne By Shoestring Dialogue)

I remember chasing birds. I thought that I could catch them. Never mind the grown-up thoughts that creep their way into immediacy after being so conditioned by warnings from news editorials. I didn't know about disease. More importantly, I hadn't given up yet. Here in adult land you watch the birds, knowing that catching them is near impossible. Should possibility exist, it's far too much work to try and quietly sneak up on a nervous bird. So we've grown into feeding, watching, and talking about their beauty.

I remember chasing birds the way I remember playing baseball. It was fun. One day I would catch a bird, I was certain. I had caught butterflies and lightning bugs, so why not birds?

I remember the ability to conceptualize death at a young age. My sister and I came across a dead bird in the yard. It had not been injured, but it was certainly not breathing. We dug a grave and said a eulogy to pay our respects. We even named the poor creature, and carved that name on a brick with a twig crafting a head stone of sorts.

I remember chasing birds as though their capability of flight could transfer to me the moment that I could hold one of them. I could do productive things with wings and wind. My imagination took me to those heights. I suppose ignorance and innocence played their roles as well. As a city-dweller, a rarely give them a second look. They are such filthy little creatures.

Nothing Eternal (Whiskey by shoestring dialogue)

And oh when that ounce creeps in! The mood will change, households will crumble, and governments will explode from the inside out. Happiness is not forever, just like sadness can not defeat everyone. Love is conditional, and hate is foolish, but even a fool is capable of compassion. Even a fool has a mother.

The Billboards penetrate so that there is no escaping these advertisements. My television is gone, and my radio is broken. I do not look at magazines, and I gave away my car. The billboards still penetrate. But oh when that ounce creeps in!

The emotion is no matter, nor the argument. The action, nor the counter action. The dog, nor the cat, nor the mouse. The church, nor the heathen. The drug, nor the disease, nor the cure. Nothing is impenetrable, especially those guilty of penetrating. And oh when that ounce creeps in!

Will I grow a beard, or shave it?

Never Missed One (Champagne by Orlo Newbould)

And, oh, when that last ounce creeps in I am edified. The tailored tuxedo, the rented dame, the sure-thing night-cap all culminate into a postcard I’d send to my father the third Sunday in June. He always opens his mail in hopes of vicarious documentation. He thinks himself the sire of a champion champagne thoroughbred. My only doubt is if I bought enough mirrors to see for myself. Sal, my tailor, stitched me three-hundred-sixty degrees of good sides. He’s eating steak tonight and Dad gets a card, but I’m missing it.

I’ve missed a lot lately but only in the night. Daytime I don’t miss a thing. My rooster crows the sports scores and the stock ticker, and my secretary calls in at 10 AM to tell me who was late to work. I don’t, work that is, so I am never late but always early to reviews, and promotions come my way like headaches to a lush. Never missed one and my life’s gone to the moon – but only in the daytime.

It’s the nighttime when my secretary let’s her hair down and the nighttime when the flower delivery girl sings karaoke. It’s the nighttime when I am in the office drinking gin, and squeezing limes into my eyes to stay awake. It’s the strangers that walk into the pool hall that keep them awake, opening their eyes to a world outside their own and giving another excuse to belly up for a gin and juice. I may be on the moon, but they blissfully dance under my barren moon rock tower.

I breathe filtered air but can’t move, can’t dance, can’t screw in my specialized, pressurized, tailorized suit - and for what?

Tone Deaf Plumbing (Champagne by Orlo Newbould)

I was sitting on the front porch whistling. I remembered something my father said about the beeps on kitchen equipment, the chimes of door ajar warnings, and the back-up alarm on the back-ho digging up the sewage system in my back yard. I whistled trying to match the tone. Whoo, whoo, whoo. Should be in the key of B. I think my father said B. I was tone deaf, however, and glad to be alone on the porch butchering even the sound of an earth mover.

Tone deaf but a hell of a speechwriter. I gave a toast two nights ago at Georgie’s wedding. The reception was held in my house. Madness it was, bridesmaids danced naked amongst my irrigation and used their dresses likes whips lashing each other’s big behinds. The cracks of derriere welts echoed off my neighbors garages. The cops came out once. I gave them a toast that silenced their sirens. I wondered if the sirens were some B arpeggio.

The groomsmen, sans myself, were worn out from the bachelor party. I had laid down for a two-hour nap before the wedding and hid my dark circles under a pair of gleaming blue eyes. Not my words: Hers. Oh and she, can’t remember her name. You think bridesmaids are indistinguishable in the same dress and hair do, just wait until they are dancing naked in your yard with dripping hair and crying mascara. But she said it.

Her compliment was better than any speech I had ever written. Effective, charismatic, and a call to action. And a call to the plumber who told me to call the back-ho to dig out the rubber I flushed down the toilet before she and I fell asleep together in a hot bath.

Salmon Fudge (Whiskey by Shoestring Dialogue)

I was sittin on the porch whistlin.  No tune in particular, but a mish-mash of partial tunes that I could remember.  An annoying way to whistle really.  I remember seeing a few other people out on their patios, talking loudly, drinkin, and I was jealous that I had no such bash to attend on a Friday night.  Then I caught some of their conversation, and I was glad that I was alone.  That was the night I met Salmon Fudge.  What parents that guy must've had huh? That is his real name. 

Salmon was absolutely crazy, and decided that he liked me, so we went drinkin.  I'd never been drinkin like that before.  We started with a brown bag just to get us to the bar.  Then we got free drinks there because Salmon knew everybody, and they closed so we went to some girl's house, and all these people were hangin out.  The kind of people I'd always wanted to meet, and was beginning to think didn't exist.  It was like when you talk to someone you really admire, mostly you're just scared.  Scared they're gonna be assholes, scared you won't be accepted, scared you might not like them as much as you thought.  It's almost better that heroes stay in books.  That's what we like about them anyway, that they're heroes.  These people were real, and Salmon was certifiably crazy, and I was drunk. 

Manipulating Situations (Champagne by shoestring dialogue)

With the middle finger raised

Your worth is appraised

Though here;

just a pinky suffice

I've never been told

that I'm nice.

(Repeat this twice)

[while abusing vice]

my drink never lasts to melt the ice.

My insides sit stirring-

My eyes keep blurring-

and you laugh.

At life, at me,

at my stumbly-mumbly

because words do not come proper

they dwell in mind numbly.

But the kidding aside

I'll need a ride

and it hurts me inside

To know that I've gone to far; 

I've always lied

about times that I've tried

whether by foot, or by car;

I've swallowed pride

where these bubbles hide

but it comes back up causing scars.

So we hate one another

but we settle like brothers

I smile behind these crook'd yellows

no real guilt to find

in my faulty mind

with sunken eyes blind-drunken

beseeching most mothers

and so-called fellows.

My Name Is What? (Whiskey by Orlo Newbould)

Middle finger right

Stuck up my nose

Middle finger left

Pulls her pantyhose.

 

Ring finger left

Suntan line

Ring finger right

Keeps perfect time.

 

A-OK fingertips

Pinch a quarter for the juke

Queasy fingers

Press on my throat gotta puke.

 

Uneasy soul

Sucks in my ribs

Smoke in my lungs

Cradles like a crib.

 

Up on my feet

To receive some attention

Down on her knees

Done away with pretention.

 

Whiskey drips

Drop drop on the floor

My mouth is full

Like the praying whore.

 

Brain is stuck

Can’t remember her name

Momma taught me right

Say thanks when I came.

Drowned in a Delmont (Champagne by Orlo Newbould)

There was this tree trimmer from Missouri, at least that’s what he told me did for a living. He told my daughter he was in a rock and roll band. Either way, I didn’t like him. Not one bit. Whether it’s chainsaws or electric guitars, it’s too much noise. My wife liked him though. She like the way he made Mary Jo glow. Mary Jo was our daughter.

 

I locked up the bank one day and on my way out a young man in a fine suit approached me. Said he needed a job. Said his family was well connected. Just needed a little experience in finance. Wanted to be a senator or even President. Either of those is respectable. Respectable and quiet.

 

I told Mary Jo about him while having cocktails on the patio. My wife was there too.

 

“MJ, there is a young man you might like”

 

“But I love Gene”

 

“He’s no good. Makes too much noise and his car leaves oil stains in the drive.”

 

“But he’s getting promoted”

 

“As a lumberjack or lead singer?”

 

“Dear that’s not nice” chimed in my wife. “Besides, her eyes glow when Gene’s around”

 

“Her eyes always glow. That’s why the boys chase her”

 

“MJ, make your father happy and just go out with the young man”

 

“It’s not fair”

 

“Trust me, you and I will talk in the morning after I’ve calmed your father down”

 

“OK mom”

 

She drowned in his 1967 Delmont 88.

 

He’s a senator.

 

Gene played Woodstock.

tree-top humidity (whiskey by shoestring dialogue)

There was this tree trimmer from Missouri name a Frank. Frank Janis. We called him "Fran-Jan" or "Janny."  I only knew Frank for a short time.

Frank was a recovering drug addict and a dealer. He sold just enough meth to be able to use. He was likely one of the smartest people I've ever met, which makes me wish that I knew him before the drugs.  The guy had put so much up his nose that he could put a cloth up one nostril and pull it out of the other one.  He got busted one day, and quit cold turkey.  He quit using and drinking and when I met him, he had almost quit cigarettes. I'm pretty sure he accomplished that goal shortly after the last time that I saw him.

Although my time hanging out with Janny was limited, I learned a bit from his stories of using and trimming.  Mostly I realized that humans have will power.  Frank took responsibility for his past, and, more importantly, for his present and future.  

Janny took his tree trimming very seriously, and held onto a reputation for being the best.  I asked him one time how he got over the heights and waving a chain-saw around while dangling up-side down.  He laughed from the top of a beautiful white oak and looked down and said, "Kid.  After 30 feet it doesn't matter."  That's the kind of guy he was.  Common sense.  I'll never forget watching him be fearless as he flung his saw around dropping limbs in the exact spots he wanted to.  Frank is an artist, and he knows it.

I doubt I'll ever see him again. I knew him for 90 days.