Saturday, September 19, 2009

Devils' Due

West 2nd Street was like a lot of other streets in the downtown area of big towns and small cities across the country. It was just past the "revitalized" section, it was old and run down and was a roach nest of people and buildings. Their were adult video stores and filthy taverns. Their were rent by the hour motels and bootleggers. It was the kind of place where you would not be surprised to find a man napping in a doorway just a little after noon, and the kind of place where police cruisers would roll right by a napping gentleman without stopping to check and see if he was dead. In the middle of the liquor stores and dope houses of West 2nd on the sixth block of this dismal place was a boarding house that looked like it might fall over sideways from exhaustion at any time, in front was a sign whose hand lettering had faded and weathered to the point of near invisibility. It read simply:



$100 wk.

666 W. Second.

Up creaking stairs, past crawling water bugs and skeletal remains of rodents was the room of Danny Weber. At present it was spinning in circles. Not really spinning but Danny had the distinct impression of a spinning room as he lay inebriated on the stained crumpled sheets of the roll away bed that he never rolled away. Danny was a drunk of the old school variety, spending each day of his miserable life coming up with drinking money, drinking, and feeling like shit. During these days of alcoholic stupor he would struggle to write page after page of bizarre testimony of his life and world- Danny was a writer. In his mind years before he had decided that along with his desire to emulate Hemingway, Kerouak, and Bukowski came an absolute need to be a two-fisted drinker and virtual chimney of stale cigarette smoke, and even if his writing had not been especially successful (at this point his only paychecks came from occasional day labor) the whole drinking and smoking thing had been something at which he excelled. The hangovers were the worst on days that he woke with no booze on his "bed side table", it was actually an upturned milk crate he had found in an alley and most mornings atop it, beside the ashtray that spilled over with so many butts you couldn't tell it was just an old tuna can, sat at least a half of a pint of the lowest quality vodka for sale in America. Unfortunately this day did not open with the usual hair of the dog and so Danny lay as still as he could with a cold sheen of sweat and a hundred dollar a week room doing an impression of a Tilt-a -Whirl from some sadistic carnival.. Recognizing the tell tale sign of salivary glands kicking in as a precursor to ralphing he sat up and rushed to the toilet, vomit leaping the last couple of feet and hitting the commode as surely as an NBA free throw, with only minimum splashing thanks to the poor water flow into the rusty brown toilet bowl. The first wave was always the easiest so Danny steeled himself for the next wave of nausea. He was tempted to gag himself with his finger and get it over with, just thinking about it proved to be sufficient and with a contraction of abdominal muscles that seemed like they would pinch him in half he continued to spew bile and yesterdays booze. Making a good deal of noise, Danny hunched and vomited and repeated.


"GRRRRRR ARRRR"!, splash

"GARRRrrrr", spit

"gerRRRAAAAAak" cough cough


and just when he thought that he might collapse and rest his head on the cool, cool white porcelain, the very air in the room split open with a crack and a brilliance of unnatural light and an avatar of Satan stepped through. Curls of black smoke peeled from his bat winged shoulders and ram like horns. His head was a horses skull and scales covered his sooty torso. The stench of scorched sulfur permeated the air, and with a booming voice that would make James Earl Jones jealous he howled,

"Who is it that summons me with incantations of the ancient tongue."

"Huh?", Danny said.

"Who is it that calls me in the voice of the oldest doomed?"

Danny had slid back against the wall sitting on his backside, his eyes were wide with fright,

"Who, who the hell are you?"

Then the beast answered back in a voice remarkably less dramatic, so much so the stature of the demon seemed smaller than a moment before,

"What is this some sort of inter dimensional wrong number?"

"Are you the Devil?"

"Sheesh, you think that I'm the Devil, Lucifer, the Prince of the Air and Ruler of Hell?"

Danny wondered if all demons were as big on the whole list of pedigree's but out loud he asked,

"Are you?"

"Dude hardly", then with a hint of pride in his once booming voice he added," but I can make certain deals under his authority, I mean I do work for him. He is my boss".

Dannys eye brow scrunched together and he turn his head a little to the side and down and asked,"What kind of deals?"

"You know like Crossroads"

"Like Ralph Macchio."

"Like Robert Freakin' Johnson."

"You could make me a great writer?"

"Well... do you mean like John Grisham great or William Faulkner great?"


"Wouldn't you rather be a rock star?"


"It would be a damn sight easier, I'd allow."

" No, I want to be a brilliant writer.'

"Brilliant no less, I could make you rich."

" I would sell my soul to be the greatest writer today."

" Listen I'll do what I can, I mean you seem like a good enough kind of fellow, but I am fairly low level you see, I mean I only work here- tell you what I'll run it past my manager see what he says."

"Okay" Danny said feeling a little like he was trying to buy a new car. And again the weird door between time and space opened and closed and the demon was gone. A brief time later he was back.

"Listen Danny I want you to know that I went to bat for you in there, I really did . The thing is you are a little upside down with the whole soul thing, I mean there has been a good deal of depreciation, you've got some damage there too. Bottom line is we are gonna have to take a pass."

"How about Grisham good?'


" Maybe just a popular blog...?"

" Listen sit down here with me", Danny sat with him on the side of the bathtub and they talked about what they could do.

When Danny woke up he had a shit taste in his mouth and the kind of strange sense of memory that you have after a night of disjointed dreams, this one had taken the cake though he wasn't sure he had ever had one that seemed so real. He sat up and saw a pint of bourbon on the milk crate along with a pack of generic cigarettes, neither had been opened. So, reaching he busted the seal on the Kentucky pain killer first and drank deep,

"What the hell it's not like I'll miss it", and tore the cellophane open on the smokes, shook one loose and lit it before crossing the room to the mess of papers scattered across his makeshift desk.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

walk on

rain falling washes

hope from me

rinsing away all

but desperation

tall buildings

bully me

lean in on me

square shoulders

barring progress

cars roar by

slashing puddles

in half

headlights staring

mocking me


i walk on

with my

soaking boots


shhkik kashaw

shhkik kashaw


my progress

like brushes

on a snare drum

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

what the hell

sitting in a doorway
downtown drinking
smelling like the bottom
side of a saddle
i smile wondering
what the hell

i was pony boy
i was james fucking dean
i was johnny cash and
spun out steve mcqueen
i frown wondering
what the hell


Did you think
That my pride
That my ego
Would be any
Because I have
Because I am
Did you think that
I became thirty
Units of
Dope drawn up
Ready to mix with
One more pint
A man
To mix
With mankind with
When self is
Becomes huge
With an
Inferiority complex

Monday, September 14, 2009

To sleep

The smell of urine
Chokes me like a
500 pound
I am seasoned
And dry rubbed
In Filth
Fuzz from give away
Blankets in the
Stubble of my
Shaved head
I fear sleep
In sleep the past
Like mist
On water
Into my soul
In sleep
The past
Smothers me
Molasses thick
I will
Enter her
Only with
Assurance of
Kentucky grains
Whiskey rebellions
The day
Comes to fast
And I must
Move on


About Me

My photo
I struggle with addiction and am just recently out of prison- I dislike most people and am bitter and self destructive. Yet somehow I have a good time. My first wife wanted to be an FBI agent when I met her in college, and the last one was a prostitute,the former gave me three great kids that I named Dakota, Skye and Willow, the latter a hell of a hard time. In the past I have been a busboy, a waiter, and a bartender. I have worked in nearly all construction trades including carpentry, brick laying, electrical, weilding, and plumbing. Once I had a job where I climbed tree's for a living. I fought Mixed Martial Arts when they still called it No Holds Barred, I have sold cars and was an editorial cartoonist. I am a failed actor, to lazy to try very hard, and lived with outlaw bikers in Northern California. I served as a medic in the army,and studied creative writing as well as radio tv. I cook a mean breakfast and like to sit and think sometimes all day. Did I say think or drink?