Bedtime Story, Act I

Can you give me a lift? I can pay you for gas.
Where to?
Over to the West Side, just over the city line.
People still hitchhike? And at your age?
You don't know my age.
Just saying. It was a Sixties and Seventies thing. But frowned upon. Because . . .
You gonna give me a ride or not?
Yeah, yeah. Calm down. Sure. How much for gas?
Ten.
Make it twelve.
Why twelve?
Cosmic.
Deal.
I need it now. Because, you know. Ya never know.
What's next, a "request" for a blowjob or get out and walk?
Too predictable.
True.
Let's dispense with the basic formalities. I'm Raoul. And you are . . .
Lefty.
Lefty? Not very feminine.
Not very feminine? Who the fuck are you to say?
No one. No one at all. "Fuck" ain't so feminine either, but I guess that depends on what you mean by "fuck" and what I mean by "feminine."
Here's twelve singles, one is a little ripped.
We're all damaged. Thank you. Appreciate it.
No prob.
What street we going to?
Hawthorne.
I prefer Emerson or Thoreau, with a dash of Melville.
Aren't you clever. 
I am that. What block?
1200 Hawthorne.
Got it. I hope this is nothing illegal.
Why do you say that, Raul?
Raoul. The French spelling.
Are you French?
I am not. Are you?
No, sir, if I may be so formal.
I like your voice. It's soothing. The voice a kid wants to hear for a bedtime story.
Do people still do that?
What? Speak with voices instead of texts?
No, tell bedtime stories.
Yes, I'm sure.
It's getting dark.
It's not dark yet but it's getting there.
Bob Dylan.
Excellent.
You're the second person in two days to talk about my voice.
Really? In a good way?
Yeah, what's your bedtime story?
What are you wearing?
What do you mean? That sounds naughty, especially for a so-called bedtime so-called story.
You know. Scent.
Chance. By Chanel.
As in, don't take chances?
The bedtime story, please.
Once upon a time...
Please.
Once upon a time an elderly man without any visible tattoos, a courtly fellow with a slight British accent, posh, wearing Tom Ford Ombre Leather, glided his 1957 Thunderbird convertible to a gentle stop on Strait Street as he saw a hitchhiker, an anomaly of the age, her thumb out, corny, as in an old movie, slightly sullen, not smiling but catching the driver's eye. The car stopped, but not the driver's mental ruminations. She was in her forties, likely, cut-off frayed blue jeans, hot August evening, Versace (maybe) shades atop her dirty blonde hair, tall, willowy, statuesque. Stately. Green eyes, but possibly blue or hazel from this distance. This spelled danger. Something out of a film noir that the film's backers chickened out on as a lousy financial risk. He rolled down the passenger-side window electronically. (The windows up on the convertible helped his hearing and didn't mess up his hair.) As he began to call out to her, he found himself yawning. She yawned.
Hey, it's right here. Stop. Here it is. 1200. Hawthorne.
I guess this is it.
I guess it is.
I guess so. 
See you.
Maybe see you again.
Thanks. Yeah. See ya.

sacred mysteries

how could it happen how does one drift from one person into another morph from one personality to another barely recognizable brand-new habits different features not physical no wait yes some physical shaped by stress care diversion distraction obsession compulsion call it addiction go ahead how does this occur overnight or incrementally invisibly moment by moment immeasurably imperceptibly unhinged from all consequence untethered from responsibility and remorse reckless to the point of indulgent death-defying what causes this brings it to the fore was it always there under layers of sedimentary deposition dolorous dolomite dangerous cementation percolating for years decades of decadent brew how does this volcano finally erupt when does it hurl lava rocks steam scalding all within eyeshot and after all is said and done said and done ad nauseam when is enough enough when does the person go back to so-called normal will there ever be a normal again was there ever a normal even a paranormal the road to recovery new neural pathways stroke victims new neural patterns relearning speech gait thought glance narrative halting steps a limp holding an unseen cane can one do it learn the healing find the healed self aromatherapy healing touch balm salutary salve soothing song how does one begin where does one start how does one take the first shaky step a sacred mystery  
 

haiku for an August Sunday

cumulus drifting

maples swaying and bowing

locust's lazy song

from Bardball

exile

'I would be in exile now but everywhere's the same...I want a ticket home.' Phil Ochs

Who exiled us, and from where? What did we do to deserve this bleak Babylon? What trumped-up offense triggered our desolate banishment? We have became exiles on Main Street, as well as Maple, Cypress, Poplar, Oak, Pine, Walnut, the whole slew of tree streets. And all the lanes and avenues. Exiled. Our offspring became a diaspora scattered to the winds, and for what and why and to where, for that matter from where. We are refugees without a country to escape from or to go to. No St. Helena or Elba as Napoleon had. You begin to accept it all as part of the punishment, the scheme: the burning sands, the foreign language, strange fruits, the treeless hardscape (despite those arboral street names). Nixon in San Clemente. Santa Claus at the North Pole. Jesus in the tomb. John Gotti in his cell. Jane Fonda in Hanoi. We fear traipsing the sands again, before our calluses have formed anew. Exilia in Exileland. And who were these residents who were here when we arrived? Were they exiles long ago? No passports, no direction home. No appetite any more for going back, as if something is there for us. 

Who will read this message in a bottle?

And then what?

'just the facts, ma'am'

just the facts, sir or ma'am
just the facts, hun or son
only the true facts, witness or suspect
(as opposed to the false facts)
only provable statements, girls
what fun is that
immovable nouns
unembroidered with adjectives or adverbs
unadorned with editorials, sly or overt
unanviled by history or expectation
threaded by truth
as we know it 
not as we don't know it
imagine
the naked facts
the skeletal stance
raw bone
blunt instrument
fact finding
search
in the dark
bright noon
just the fact
the fact
of this

he said she said they said it said

[insert smartphone text notification sound after each entry below, as appropriate, or inappropriate: piano tinkling, bell chime, shotgun, thunder, guitar twang, lion's roar, fart, burp, post-orgasmic sigh, trumpet blare, car horn, alarm, jet roar . . . ]

Dad: where are you?

Mom: hey, you.

Girlfriend: wyd

Friend A: 'sup?

Brother: hi there

Dad: frown emoji

Ex-gf from 1986: Where ya been all my life?

Sister:  where've you been today

Friend B: wtf

Girlfriend: wya

Friend C: wanna hang out

Ex-gf from 2015: Netflix n chill?

Girlfriend: whats your problem

Sprint: your bill is available online

Other brother: you got 20 bux till tmrw???

Friend C: hey, can I borrow like 20$

Mom: hello????!!???

Girlfriend now ex-gf: fuck offfuck you, you fuk and I'm pregnant

Dad: do you have the keys to the Mustang?

Ex-gf from 2018: I had your baby did you know dat

Friend A: u alive?

Ex-gf from 2015: Im in Kazakhstan dickface

Sister: u no i luv you dontcha

Mrs. Rivers, 7th grade English teacher: it's a gerund; know it now!

National Grid: your bill is overdue. your power will be cut off . . .  

Sister Mary Aloysius Gonzaga de Porres: that's a mortal sin

Dad: HELLO?

Brother: are you coming over now or not?

Dr. Ozcomert: are you breathing?

John Angleterre, boss:  Please be advised your position, and you in that position, have been terminated. Do not enter the premises under any circumstances under pain of arrest.

Sister: g'night love you talk tmrw

Private Number: Your appointment with Probation has been canceled. Please be advised it would be prudent if you were to assume a new name and Social Security number. Leave town now. Better yet, if you have a passport, leave the country. STAT.