Some More Poems

A salt shaker
Like a nose cone of a tiny rocket ship
or a foot for a reclining chair
Like an odorless Renuzit airfreshener
or a pillar on some ancient temple
A lighthouse on a cold and dark night
or a thimble for a giant man
Harmony amongst race with its righthand man

A Portrait, kind of
A sword in my hand represent who i am
The armor on my chest protects that
What are these colors around me?
A chaotic display of nature
These buildings are proud with elegance
I protect this ancient city
Who is that figure in the distance?
Is it my reflection?
Or only a metaphor of that?
Someone to pose a challenge
Someone to defeat
Someone to serve my purpose against

Some Poems

Hell
This place seems so unfamilair
although I spend my time here
So many shapeless faces
but only one mind
plotting and pushing against me
drowning in a sea of bodies
I keep my distance
but they crawl closer
permeating my defenses
there is no where to turn but inside
but I am still not alone
I've longed for death
Now I long for life
crying for escape, detachment
hoping for freedom from myself

Random Word Poem
Watch the stylish dancers play
newly decorated in healthy energy
Listen to the museum guide make points
A tongue behind Pearly teeth speaks of hydrocarbon
I sit, loathesomely like a casualty,
pondering the definition of of ire for novelty

Fiction

Johnny sat alone on the front steps of his house. The midnight air was thick with humidity making it uncomfortable to breathe. His parents were in the house sleeping, but he sat outside breathing heavily and thinking to himself. Headlights shown from up the street, cutting through the thick air and bouncing with the car as it sped over bumps and through intersections. The car eventually rolled to a stop in front of Johnny’s house and he got up to meet his visitor.
“What’s up man?” said the voice through the open passenger side window.
“Oh, you know” answered Johnny. He lifted the door handle and pulled open the door. It was dark inside the vehicle; only dim dashboard lights lit the car. The heavily tinted windows blocked out nearly all outside light from entering. He wondered how you would see to drive. The car had a powerful aroma of smoke which clung to Johnny’s nostrils and nearly made him choke. The car dropped into drive and slowly crept down the street.
“So are you ready for this?” asked the driver as he took a drag from his cigarette. Johnny could only see the cherry rise and get brighter and he took a drag. He only saw the silhouette of his counterpart, but he knew exactly who he was talking to. He knew Damon Winter, he had gone to school with him since second grade and although they had not been friends for long, he knew Damon was notorious for causing trouble.
“Yeah man, I guess” Johnny scratched his head and motioned Damon for a cigarette. Damon reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of reds.
“You guess? You should be thrilled for this, you’re getting revenge, this could be the best night of your life.” Damon tossed a cigarette at Johnny, who fidgeted around in the dark for it before he pulled out his lighter to scan the area.
“You’re right” Said Johnny after the inhale of smoke. “That bastard is going to get what’s coming to him. He thinks he can expel me just because I had cigarettes in my pocket? I wasn’t even smoking.”
“Right, where’s the justice?” chuckled Damon, he made a sharp right and quickly accelerated, pushing Johnny back in his seat while he frantically, yet unnoticeably looked for something to brace himself upon. He took another drag of his cigarette and thought to himself for a moment.
“So do you know where Principal Walters lives?” Johnny brushed ash off his blue jeans as the car flew around another corner.
“Of course, do you think we’d just drive ‘til we found it? I’m prepared man, this ain’t my first rodeo” Damon spoke with an aggravated tone. Johnny retracted. He sat quietly for a few moments, finished his cigarette and flicked it out the window.
“So how do we even go about doing this?” He began to feel anxious and started fidgeting with the strings on his jacket.
Damon took a deep breath and glanced at Johnny for a moment before his eyes refocused on the road while mailboxes and trash cans flew by at an alarming rate. “We go and knock on the door and wait for an answer” he said sarcastically. “It’s just like it sounds, we break in. We find a window or a door and break it. Then we go in. Then we can do whatever we want, hopefully he’s got some beer in the fridge.”
“What if someones home?” Johnny responded quickly.
“Then we run.” Damon was almost yelling. “Look, at school they said he was gone until next Monday, family vacation to Florida. Do you think he told the whole school that just so we would break in and he would catch us? Come on man, no one is there.”
“What if someone sees us?” Johnny’s questions came quickly. Damon seemed to get more and more agitated with each word Johnny muttered. He seemed to speed up with each word as well. The car was approaching seventy-five miles an hour through residential streets, nearly catching air as they flew over intersections without slowing down.
“Man, are you getting soft on me? I thought you would want this. That prick has made the last four years of our lives hell, all we are doing is trying to even the score a little bit.” Damon pressed down harder on the gas and the car roared to nearly ninety miles an hour. Houses blended together in a long string on flood lights and colored siding. Damon slammed on the breaks and the tires screamed on the pavement. The car turned sideways before the brakes were released and it straightened itself out. “It’s only a few blocks up there, 5142 West Oak.”
Damon slowly and cautiously approached the block and pulled next to the curb a few houses in front of their destination. “Allright,” he said “put this on.” He handed Johnny a black ski mask. Johnny looked at it for a few seconds and set it down in his lap. “Take this” Damon handed Johnny a crowbar. “Put your damn mask on.” Johnny sat silently, staring at the mask and the crowbar in his hands. He set the crowbar on the floor and picked up the mask, pulling it on his head, but not over his face. “Let’s do this” Damon said as he opened his door, “come on.”
Johnny opened his door and slowly stepped out of the car. A chill ran down his spine when he saw head lights crossing in the distance. His knees shook when he took the step onto the curb. The crowbar felt like it weighed fifty pounds and he struggled to keep it in his grasps with sweat on his palms. Damon came around the passenger side of the car and quietly yelled “Come on man, let’s go.” Johnny didn’t move, his heart was racing and he could barely swallow the thick air. “Right now man, move.” Johnny didn’t respond to Damon’s demands, he remained frozen, ski mask over his forehead and crowbar in hand, he trembled with trepidation.
Damon moved in close to Johnny and put a finger in his chest. “Its like this, either we go and there and have some fun, or I go in there and have some fun. Right now, you are coming with me or you are going home.” The masked man in Johnny’s face stared deeply into his eyes, his finger remained pressed firmly into his chest as he waited for a response.
Johnny relaxed, his tension evaporated instantly. “I’m going home” he said sternly, his expression of seriousness did not change. He sidestepped Damon’s finger and tossed the crowbar onto the grass by his feet. He took off the mask and threw it at Damon’s chest where it bounced off and fell to the ground. Damon looked stunned, he was speechless and simply stared at Johnny.
Johnny began walking while Damon was still frozen. Finally Damon gathered his senses and yelled loudly at Johnny. “Are you serious? You’re backing out? Hey, get back here. Punk, you’re really going to walk away?”
Johnny kept walking, he did not turn around to even look at Damon. He turned the first corner and thought about how to get home. It would be a long walk, but he needed it. He smiled smugly as he walked, realizing he had made the right choice. He wondered if Damon had gone through with the plan, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about Damon anymore, he never wanted to see his face again. He kept walking, never looking back, thinking and smiling as he took each step closer to home.

The Tale of the Dragonfly

Shelia sat staring at the little green dragonfly ornament projecting up from behind the marigolds in an old pot. Her expression was blank, she didn’t move, the only sound in the room was of her subtle breathing as she sat at her kitchen table. Her eyes were transfixed on the dragonfly, but her mind circulated around the object.
The dragonfly had been in her life for thirty years, more or less. She had gone with her mother to a green house when she was just seven years old. Her mother examined pansies and begonias while Shelia wandered off looking at everything else the green house had to offer. She lent quick glances to pots of all shapes and sizes, all different types of seeds, garden gnomes and other various lawn ornaments. She stopped abruptly when she came to the dragonfly. It was small, green with yellow stripes, mesh wings wrapped around thin steel frames, two spiral wire antennas and a long metal rod to penetrate soil.
The dragonfly was in a bucket with a variety of other insects. There was only one dragonfly mixed in with a sea of butterflies, grasshoppers, caterpillars and fireflies. She picked out the dragonfly and ran it up to her mom. She tugged on her dress and her mother looked down into the wide, puppy dogs eyes.
“Mommy,” Shelia begged “Can I get this?”
Her mother smiled, scanned the item for a price tag and replied “Yes, darling, that’s fine.” Shelia’s apprehension turned to joy and a big smile grew from ear to ear. Her mother smiled too and went back to picking through flowers.
Shelia awoke from her reverie, somewhat disoriented from the lucid flashback. She still sat at the table, but her eyes moved away from the dragonfly quickly. Her eyes welled up with tears and her apathetic expression turned to a look of heavy pain. Her mother was gone and this dragonfly now represented the travesties committed against the family. Shelia let her arms catch her head as it fell to the table. The site of the dragonfly was almost too much to bear.
Shelia’s mother met an unfortunate demise. Homicide was printed on the coroner’s report with no leads to any suspects, but Shelia knew the truth. Her mother’s house sat on a prime piece of real estate in the growing suburban regions of Chicago. Week by week more and more houses in the neighborhood were being purchased and tore down by investors to build shopping malls, fast food restaurants and parking lots. Her mother told her of all the offers she had gotten for the house and how she would not sell under any circumstances. She had lived there all her life and could not see moving.
Shelia recalled a conversation she had with her mother a few days before her murder. Her mother told her of a wealthy business man who constantly pressured her to sell her estate. Day after day he called her and harassed her, but she remained strong and refused any offer, despite the amounts of wealth. Finally, the business man, Ronald Plunk, lost patience and demanded the house be sold today or appropriate measures would be taken. Shelia’s mother was startled and right before she hung up the phone, uttered the words “over my dead body.”
Her mother’s words rang eerily in her ears as she lifted her head off the table and wiped the tears from her face. She stared blankly at the dragonfly once again, this time with a look of spite in her eyes. She was convinced Plunk murdered her mother. She didn’t have any proof, other than the gut feeling that clenched and tore at her from the inside. She knew the police wouldn’t find the right guy, Plunk had enough money to side step any law in existence. Shelia had had too much anguish for the night and desperately needed rest. She rose from her chair and walked to the living room where she collapsed on the couch and quickly drifted into sleep, tossing and turning frequently throughout the night as though haunted by some thought or idea.
Shelia awoke the next morning with a cloudy head. It was nine o’clock in the morning and she wiped the sleep out of her eyes as she positioned herself on her hindquarters on the couch. She sat for moment in thought, staring no place in particular, aptly contained in herself. She sighed and leaned back, she was struggling with something in her head, seemingly trying to convince herself one way or the other.
“Coffee,” she said aloud, “that is all I need to wake up.”
She found her keys by the door and made her way to her car parked in her driveway. Shelia thought about her situation with Mr. Plunk as she drove down the road to Starbucks. She needed to find some sort of solace in this situation, one way or the other, or she could never move on. Her mother’s funeral was only three days earlier and Shelia knew she should still be sunk well within the grieving process, but the only feeling she felt was rage, not towards her mother, but Plunk. She just wanted him to be brought to justice and to realize he is not above the law. She pulled into the drive through and placed her order. She thought about approaching Plunk and confronting him to his face. “Where would that get me?” she thought to herself, “He is a rich and powerful man, he obviously already knows how to lie and deceive. He would just brush me aside and that would be it.”
She handed her money through the window and got a cup of coffee in return. She took a sip as she turned onto the road and towards her mother’s old house. “Maybe I could take legal action against him,” Shelia now thought, “But that would he hopeless, he has the resources for the best lawyers in the world. Not to mention he made sure the deed couldn’t be traced back to him, he probably never even met my mother face to face.”
Shelia turned the corner towards her mother’s old house. She immediately saw construction equipment, but had grown accustomed to the site as the neighborhood has become a concrete landscape. Her rage grew exponentially as she neared the house. The wrecking ball swung back as she pulled within a few houses. The ball swung forward and struck the old house with a crunch that crippled Shelia. It was though the wrecking ball was sent straight for her heart. She squeezed her cup of coffee in rage, the lid popped off coffee splashed over her denim jeans. She paid no attention to the coffee on her leg and focused on the house she grew up in being demolished to the ground. Her knuckles were white with rage and she clung to the steering wheel. “This is it,” she thought “that bastard Plunk is going to pay.”
She could barely remember anything from the drive from her mother’s to Poncho’s Ol’ Saloon, the corner bar managed by her long time friend Manny Rodriguez. Poncho’s wasn’t typically the scene for Shelia. It was a rough and tumble place, bar brawls typically signified closing time, the beer was cheap, the liquor was cheaper and the company was even shadier. It was best not to get to know the patrons too well, or you would probably become the accomplice of some crime committed or about to be committed, but it was early and the place was empty aside from Manny and a few women giggling in the back room.
“Manny, I don’t know what to do, this Plunk character is going to be the death of me.” Said Shelia as she removed a cigarette from her case and searched her purse for a lighter.
“You still think Plunk was behind it, huh?” replied Manny, lighting a match and holding it up to Shelia’s cigarette. “Shelia, relax, the police will find the killer.”
“Not if it’s Plunk.” She said sternly “I know it was that guy, it’s been less than a week than she died and her house is already gone. The motive is obvious, but he is too rich to touch, there is no way he will ever get what he deserves.”
Manny finished pouring liquid into a glass and slid it towards Shelia. “I don’t know what to tell you,” said Manny “You’ve got your mind set, there is no way to change it, how do you plan to deal with this?”
“I want him dead” she sharply stated. Manny paused for a moment, then slowly went back to wiping down the bar. “I need him dead” she said again, this time almost demanding. “Manny, this is the only way this can end. There needs to be justice, someone needs to put everything in its right place. How many people has this guy trampled over? How many lives has he wrecked just to earn another penny? This pig must be slaughtered, for the good of all.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” replied Manny, showing more emotion than Shelia has ever seen. He had put his rag down and stood leaning over the bar towards Shelia. “You are talking about murder, Shelia, cold blooded murder. You don’t even know if this guy is really behind it.”
“I know.” Shelia said without hesitation. “I know it was him and I know what has to be done. Can you help me or not?”
“Come on, don’t drag me into this” begged Manny. He looked into Shelia’s eyes. Her face was paralyzed with severity. She said nothing and simply stared at Manny. “You really want to do this?” he asked with finality. Shelia didn’t move. “Fine, come back at eleven, there will be a man dressed in black, he will be sitting alone at the table in the back. He is your guy, talk to him, I have nothing else to say.” Manny turned his back and started wiping down anything he could that didn’t face Shelia.
Shelia finished her drink and extinguished her cigarette. She stood up and walked to the door. Just as she reached the door Manny spoke up “You’ll want to bring some money.”
“Thanks” she replied simply. She pushed open the door and stepped into the morning sun.

….to be continued…..

Dragonfly

Shelia dug her hands into the potting soil, tilling it up and removing any debris that had mades it way into the pot. She lifted a flower from its holder and cultivated a spot for it in the black dirt. She planted it, packing the soil around the roots with tenderness and care. She looked at her work, satisfied and brushed the dirt from her hands and arms. The final addition to the plant was a dragonfly pot accessory. A plush dragonfly sat atop a long metal rod and perfectly accented the flow. The dragonfly was a crucial element to the plant, she had had since her mother passed away six years earlier. She picked it out when she was a little girl of seven. She and her mother were shopping through a green house when the little striped creature caught her eye. She begged her mother to buy it, which she did, and watched eagerly as her mother inserted it into a plant in the dining room. Shelia remembers gorwing up with the dragonfly, the plants dies, but every time the new plant would be adorned with the same green and yellow decoration. It sat in the same spot for years and years, typically going unnoticed. It was only until her mothers funeral that Shelia remembered the origins of the creature. She stepped into her mothers house

Black Leather Glove

He had been in the business for most of his life, in one form or another. Most people simply refered to him as "him", because they either didnt know his real name or if they did, knew better than to disclose it. He always wore the same attire, long black trenchcoat trickling down to just below his knees. He wore black leather pants, worn at the knees along with a variety of cuts across the legs. His shoes were black, combat boots, able to crush objects and kick through doors without any collateral damage to his foot. A black leather vest shielded his chest under his overcoat, complementing his sunglasses and long, slicked back hair. The final piece and most important piece to his wardrode was a pair of black leather gloves. Complete with a velco faster to ensure they would stay on his hands in any situation. The gloves were a key element to his attire, always present they were a signal that seperated him from the average street creep.

NonFiction Final Edition

My childhood is full of memories, some warm and touching, some weird and awkward, some happy and peaceful, some turbulent and confusing and a lot decaying and untranslatable. One memory continuously made itself present in my conscious train of thought while digging through the bin of past experiences: a vacation to Minneapolis for a Twins game with my father and my sister. Who can forget their first Major League Baseball game? Not me apparently. Nine innings of father-son bonding over America’s favorite past time, truly a time-tested institution in the American Dream.
The year was 1996. It was the dead of summer and time for our annual vacation with my father. My parents were divorced when I was very young, around age five, but I still spent time with my father. The visits were mainly Sundays with some full weekends and other events, but rarely did we ever leave town on an expedition. The relationship with my father wasn’t flawless; we had different interests for the most part, but shared some common grounds as well as common DNA. My father is a sportsman, very active and well known amongst the hunters and fisherman of Eastern South Dakota. He fits the look of an outdoorsman too: tall, strong, stern face and a look of man who has had to work hard his entire life. He never graduated from High School, but has an understanding of the workings of life to brave hard times and propel himself back to a comfortable state for him and those around him. He always keeps him senses about him in, rarely loses his good nature and is someone who I would consider a role model.
The past few summers he had taken my sister and I to the Black Hills for tours of all the landmarks including Mount Rushmore, Wall Drug, Reptile Gardens, Historic Deadwood and a few museums along the way as well. One year, our trip conveniently aligned with the motorcycle rally in Sturgis, which is definitely a must for an eight year old child. My dad’s brother, Randy, lived in Rapid City and we typically stayed at his house with air conditioning or no cable television. The heat was bad, but the boredom of four channels was nearly intolerable. Besides nearly choking to death on a slice of cheeseburger pizza, much of the time was spent enjoying the endless bliss of a summer vacation.
This year we decided to go east instead. It was my first time spending any time in Minneapolis, so there was a strong excitement for what may come. The itinerary included a Major League Baseball game, Valley Fair and the Minnesota Zoo. We left very early on a Friday morning. I cannot recall the exact time, but it was earlier than the 1:00 p.m. mornings I was used to during that summer. My mother wanted to us to be entertained on the car ride, so she packed my sister and I all sorts of goodies like crosswords, word searches and other mildly entertaining novelties of the sorts. There was also plenty of candy in the kit, most likely to keep us children sugared up so we could entertain our father the whole way there.
The three of us piled our belongings in the trunk of Dad’s Cutlass and I took my designated spot in the back seat. Dad dropped his visor down to shield his eyes from the mornings’ rising sun as we rolled east on Highway 212 towards Minnesota. The vacation officially began when we got about ten miles out of town and I felt it was time to begin keeping tabs on our progress.
“Are we there yet?” I asked
“Nope” replied my father calmly, knowing this was just the beginning of the annoyances to come from the back seat.
“How much farther?” I retaliated.
“Along way” he said with a tone of detachment.
Soon enough, the “Along way” turned into “About halfway” before becoming “Just about there” and finally “We’re here.” The long car ride was over, we were drenched with sweat from the summer heat and in desperate need of exercise or something to appease our aching legs after the voyage.
The first stop was Valley Fair. It should be every child’s paradise with all kinds of roller coasters, Ferris wheels, log rides and everything else that seemed intimidating to a fat little nine year old who was scared of his own shadow. My sister, a few years older than I, wasn’t much more of an adrenaline junkie that I was, so we stuck to the rides like bumper cars and had a good time doing it. My sister eventually convinced me to take the Ferris wheel for a spin. Reluctantly I agreed, and despite a small episode of acrophobia, I began longing to make my way back to the top of the wheel. The scene was like nothing I had ever seen before. Acres and acres of amusement park all settled under me while I looked down upon it like a giant on the masses. That ride highlighted the Valley Fair experience and we, now exhausted from heavy play, made our way back to the Cutlass and towards our next destination: The Minnesota Zoo.
I was thrilled making the trip to the zoo and actually had some aspiration to become a zoologist at the time. Dad pulled the Cutlass into the parking lot and found a spot amongst the sea of cars. We made our way to the gates with a swarm of other patrons, slightly confused as Dad frantically tried to keep tabs on us among the crowd. The place was busy. At the gate, we found we had actually chosen Free Zoo Day for our first visit to the establishment. It had its pros and cons, but mainly cons. My dad saved Twenty dollars, or whatever it may have cost to enter, but we had to fight congestion no matter where we went. There was no time to stop and enjoy the exhibits without being overrun by flocks of aggressive patrons and pushed on without remorse. My father, my sister and I like our space, which was impossible to come by, so our tour around the place was abbreviated.
One animal exhibit sticks out in my mind. The previous spring at school I had selected the Malaysian tapir to write a report on. The tapir is a peculiar pig-like creature with coloring like a panda bear. It was probably not the most popular animal in the zoo, but I certainly had a special appreciation for it having a vast knowledge of the creature. We probably spent more time at that exhibit than any other while I fed my family useless knowledge of the over-sized rat. When claustrophobia had thoroughly consumed each of us, we fought our way to the exit and called it a day as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. We set out to find our motel and get a nights rest before the game the next afternoon.
It was game day now, the Minnesota Twins hosting the New York Yankees at the Metrodome. I would not have considered myself a baseball fan. I have never really appreciated the game of baseball, a slow paced game where they actually play the sport for about 20 minutes and stand around waiting to play the other two hours and 40 minutes. I did not have a great respect for many sports at that time. I preferred the fast action game of hockey and the excitement auto racing and had really not paid too much attention to anything. I wasn’t the bright eyed little boy in the Twins hat and the glove giddy to be at his first major league game, nor was I in awe at the heroes on the field. I was, however, in awe at the spectacle itself that was a professional sporting event. The crowds, the noise and the energy impressed me more than anything during the whole vacation.
We met up with my Uncle Bob at the motel and collected for breakfast before we left. Bob had come from Sioux Falls to take in the game with us. My Uncle Bob is an eccentric man, which is probably why I like him. He is a tall, lanky Norwegian with a good sense of humor, an infectious smile and amusing expressions. He looks like a fleshed version Ned Flanders of the Simpsons, and acts somewhat the same way minus the strong religiousness and the “how-didly-do’s”. He is good friends with my father, even though they were only bound by the in-law title. He lives in Sioux Falls, but spends a lot of time riding his Honda Gold Wing around the country in a gang of geriatric motorcycle enthusiasts. None the less, he is a fan of America’s pastime and was ready to watch the Twins play ball.
I can’t tell you who won the game, but there were plenty of other tidbits that embedded themselves in my memory. We got there early enough to watch the players warm up from the front row. After that we found our seats midway up just slightly to the right of home base. The seats were good enough to see all the action, even though I always lost the ball against the white roof of the Metrodome. Uncle Bob bought a round of ice cream cones which may have been the highlight of the game for me.
There was one play from the game that thrilled me, the kind of play that makes sport what it is. It could have been the play that turned me on to baseball for the rest of my life had my mind been a little more open. The legendary Kirby Puckett knocked a double into the outfield and rounded first towards second. He then executed an epic slide, losing his batting helmet in the process and narrowly making it to the base before the ball arrived. It wasn’t a home run, there was no run batted in, but it still stuck with me more so than anything else from the game. It was the play that I emulated at home after the game, tossing my Toronto Blue Jays plastic batting helmet off as I slid awkwardly on the grass.
Kirby Puckett was my hero for about a week after the game. It was too bad his legend had worn off me before he and a few other Twins visited my high school a number of years later and told our class to not do drugs and stay in school.
The game marked the finale end of trip. We said goodbye to Uncle Bob and went back to our motel for supper and a nice swim before we turned in for the night. The next morning we loaded our bags back into the Cutlass and drove back down Highway 212 to South Dakota. The ride back home had a different atmosphere than the ride to Minnesota. The tone changed from excitement to more of a somber mood. We were all silent for most of the trip, letting the radio play and we sorted out memories of the weekend. We made it to Watertown with the sun shining its lasts beams of light over the horizon. Dad pulled into the driveway and my mother came out of the door, making sure we were alive or at least breathing. The parents discussed the trip while my sister and I hauled our luggage and souvenirs into the house. We said goodbye to Dad and stormed Mom with our versions of the weekend.
I considered it a successful vacation. There was learning, excitement and adventure and no serious injuries. There were also some lasting memories to recall in a fit of nostalgia years later while writing, say, maybe a paper due for class.