the role gravity plays when boiling potatoes with a casual partner

I.

She poured enough salt
to taste like the sea
and acted like a host
of a show on TV.

He laid down his head
on the blue formica,
stared at her bottom
covered in lycra

and that was when all notions of form was lost

II.

(he
breathed in when
she
exhaled)

what do you think about gravity he asked

she checked on her lamb, checked on the potatoes, checked on the ingredients
he checked out the nape of her neck, he checked out that sliver of muscle that connected her lower jaw to her collarbone and loved how it moved adjacent to the mere swivel of her head

do you remember thriller that michael jackson song, she asked .

he nodded his head.

well when i was younger that music video scared the living daylights out of me: the zombies surrounding that girl, vincent price's cold, classy composed voice calculatedly timbred to elicit suspense, michael jackson's eyes -- especially michael's eyes. that part where he reassures his girl how everything's alright and then he turns around to smile with these terrible evil soulless eyes. they were freeze-framed, vincent price's cackle in the background. it creeped the hell out of me, i couldn't even hear that song when we went shopping at safeway without holding on tight to my mom. i would just think about how he had his arm comfortably around his girl but revealing to the world he was really a monster -- oh my god i just described my last three relationships.

they both laughed.

i watched again last night, anticipating that fear to come back. but all i got was this campy hokey music video. what was scary was michael's hair and nose and skin and how he would 25 years away from being 25,000 times weirder than that. if he spoke indian it would've been a bollywood horror film

he smiled,

then replied

yeah it makes me wonder how someone in today's world, like britney spears, can cope with the scrutiny of our open jaws and bewildered eyes (while thriving off us too) for the next 25 years. how irrelevant she'll feel when she might be irrelevant to people she would never meet or wouldn't even like standing in line with at the atm.

if that's how she'll be, she said, then she'd lack gravity. because thriller last week is what i think about gravity -- the relief in knowing what's worth it and what isn't even there. our mind is stronger than the weight an ant can carry; it recieves information and sends out orders accordingly. when it's hot, we sweat to balance the heat. when i touch this boiling pot (she pointed to the potatoes) without gloves the heat tells my brain to pull back before i get badly burned, when something scares me as a child it stores that memory, that feeling so it will elicit the response at the thought of it. but when reality arrives, after time, and you see that what frightened you was so long ago was just this goofy thing, then your brain officially writes over your memory with a new one.

gravity has no ETA or waiting period, it waits for you. it waits for you an apple to fall off its branch, it waits for my breasts to decide when it doesn't want to be as firm. and if you refuse to acknowledge it then it's your prerogative, but perception isn't gravity.

he smiled.

the potatoes were finally cooked mixed with dijon mustard celery sour cream worcestishire sauce roasted hazelnuts and orange juice. he sprinkled salt onto it grounded pepper on top of it. they agreed it tasted good though she was humble and said it was alright

is it pronounced, war-shester, he asked.

when i was a kid, i pronounced it woos-est-shire but i'm sure that's wrong.

III.

when they finished their food, they both let out a sigh.
when they were in bed, they both moaned and made ugly faces.
when they finished their session, they both let out a sigh

He picked himself up
got a roach from her desk
and watched her sleep soundly,
the rise and fall of her chest.

Grabbed himself a plate
and got off the stool,
took a walk outside,
sat at the complex's pool.

Lit the roach and saw his reflection
between the leaves in the chlorinated water.
Looked where the leaves came from up above,
looked at the branches that teetered and tottered.

Looked beyond the trees
and saw a bird --
behind was sky, was stars --
looked while it dropped a turd

if he looked harder
if he looked beyond,
he thought he'd
see infinity (because
infinity is where he'd want to be)

and in infinity, he'd say
(he rolled another j)

about gravity, i think you find it romantic.

not so much romance, she would say.
romance is a man fuckiung before dying for
what he believes in. gravity
is the resonance hours after
the orgasm, hours before his death.

that sounds romantic, he said.

because you're a romantic, she answered.

no i'm not, i'm just the fuck buddy.

he would smile saying that and she
would smile back. he had to think
before she smiled and he wondered
if she did the same thing, too.

he continued,

this is what i think about gravity, and
i don't disagree with what you think --
about gravity and me being a romantic.

we can both draw a dog,
yours might have spots, mine
will have long fingernails and
neither of us will be wrong.

we'll both have drawn four legs
and a nose that looks like a
bloated upside-down "W".
our idea of a dog is there,
just different interpolations.

she laughed, telling him her
dog's nose would a circle at the
tip of a long hotdoggish feature.
it'd be a weiner dog, she said.

well, maybe you'd be wrong, he
joked.

just kidding.

she shook her head,
then nodded it.
go on, she said.

true, he continued, it's
been established i'm a romantic,
a manic, a hopeless rote manic.

romance and love aren't
mutually exclusive. romance
and wanting to fuck aren't

diametrically opposed to
each other. romantics find
the seriousness of water boiling

romantics find the whimsy
layered underneath a
mother's funeral,

they find contentment extra-
ordinary in a monogamous
relationship, find the

lust enthralling in a casual
encounter. from what you said
you think gravity is --

and by the way i wish i came up
with an answer like yours --
gravity is the equilibrium

in keeping a romantic grounded,
and putting a romantic in all of us.
she interrupted, it attempts to at least.

yeah, attempt, i'm sorry.

i don't think i'm a romantic, my
heart's not on my sleeve, i see
water boiling and i think

100 degrees celsius, i see my
mom's funeral and all i could
think of was if i wasn't mourning

enough or too much out of respect
for my mom. the thing is, gravity
requires my sentimental side to

come out for balance, right. there
was a pregnant pause and she
answered; well it doesn't

require anything. it is just there,
inert. whatever floats up top was
you all along. (he choked on a toke,

his cough arrhythmic and isolated
from the area surrounding him)
when you asked me to buy a

sack of potatoes, he asked, was that
gravity? it wasn't part of our agreement
that we cooked for each other or do

boyfriend/girlfriend things. the way i
felt when you were talking about watching
Thriller when you were younger, was that

gravity? me listening to you, seeing your
depth go over me like shade on a hot
day. maybe gravity has allowed us

to get comfortable when all we looked
for was convenience, or maybe i'm the
only one who feels that way. what i'm

trying to say is that your idea of gravity
is broad, while mine is more specific. if
you asked a physicist about gravity

he would discuss the theory of relativity
or newton's theory of gravitation. if you
ask a high school student he'd give you

a textbook definition that shows its
responsibility of keeping the earth and
the planets around the sun. but mine

is more specific. when i'm not with you
this gravity feels like quicksand. gravity
is many things to many people, determined

by many things for many people. this is gravity
for me, determined by me. if i can look into
the future, which i can't, many paths

take us to where we shouldn't be and many
of the factors that existed before this evening,
before potatoes and before we discussed gravity,

foreshadowed that. our agreement is on
the verge of being null and void on account
of gravity. how do you feel about that that?

IV.

He stared at the stars.
It was a long time since he looked
carefully. He kept his eyes at earth's ceiling,
knowing he won't know when
he'd enjoy it again.

She came out, looking for him
(when he exhaled, she inhaled)
I wish I knew constellations, he said.
She looked up and smiled.
There's orion, she said. My favorite

You can see it because of those three
stars aligned, Orion's belt.

He squinted at the sky. I see
it, he said. They looked at it together.

about gravity, she said.
i think you find it romantic.

i want to be there from the beginning

i want to be there from the beginning.
i wouldn't care if it was big bang or
adam figuring out if being inside eve
was the greatest thing ever.
i wouldn't tell anyone that i was there.
i want to be part of the genesis of feeling.

i want to be there when a man baked bread
for the first time, i want to see his reaction
to the smell, the taste. i want to see how
he even thought of how yeast would rise
and how moist and soft bread would feel
on his tongue. i wouldn't even intrude,
i just want to see and smell a smell in front of
someone who never smelled that smell
and see how he'd respond to something
some people take for granted.

i want to be there when you decided
that the idea of feeling sad was an idea
that you would not be a part of.
i would like to hear your parents
listening to some guy playing piano
and the television being background
for everything else you considered background.
and as much as i would like to tell you that
everyone's emotion is important and worth
feeling, regardless of whether it makes you
want to ignore dinner for philip larkin,

i would stay quiet. i would not try to
deduce or figure out why you
acted in the way you acted.

i would sit there, watching the
lines on your face grow into
the person i met and felt

because i would never
time travel to change history,
or to figure out the psychology
of humanity. i would just like to see
something beautiful.

Dick Around by Sparks

Untitled, Chapter four

i've got two tentative titles now: "about awareness" and "the book of okay, alright"

Sandra Tay was Clark's third girlfriend but his first pinay girlfriend. He had previously dated a Chinese girl named Wanda (losing his virginity to her his sophomore year of high school) and a Persian woman called Sanazz (who was insufferable, had hairy arms and big-time daddy and insecurity issues -- otherwise the sex was firework-inducing).

While Clark obviously came from a more obvious lineage of Malaysian and pre-colonial Philippines (dark skin tone, 5'5", stocky build), Sandra was part of a much less defined heritage. Her skin was fairer, her eyes rounder, her surname Chinese.

Clark's parents had always nurtured an awareness of his culture. They had bought him books on the Katipunan, Jose Rizal, Philippine presidents and the like. He also had Filipino friends, but it wasn't until Sandra that he actively searched for that part of him in his own life.

After graduating, she started as a midwife at the local hospital and working an inconsistent schedule. They met at a grocery store. It was after midnight and Clark was a buying a last-minute Mother's Day card after second-guessing his initial purchase. He was changing from a sentimental card for a cheesier one ("It's Your Day! M- is for your Matronly strength, etc. etc.).

They both knew the register clerk, Harold. Harold was hitting on Sandra with the veracity of a great white shark. He sensed blood, Clark would later joke, because she was there to buy tampons.

It was Harold who introduced them in line. She was ahead of Clark, who had listened to Harold's tactless come-ons with guilty delight. Sandra was polite but obviously exhausted. Harold had asked Sandra to wait a bit so he can supply contact information for a party he was throwing next weekend. His invitation to Clark had been an afterthought.

On their way out, Sandra obliged to make small talk.

"So are you going to the party," she asked.

Clark shrugged his shoulders.

"I can't plan that far ahead right now," he answered. "We'll see. How about you?"

"My horoscope says I should accept any invitations that come unexpected."

"Oh, so I guess that means you're going."

"Nope," she replied. "I might go but I don't believe in horoscopes."

She winked at him. He smiled back.

He sat n his car, re-writing his Mother's Day card and then drove home.

Not a second of that evening crossed his mind until the night before the party. He was at a sandwich shop ordering a bowl of chili when he noticed Sandra sitting by herself. He wasn't sure if she would remember him so he didn't say hello but sat in a strategic location where she can see him just in case. She instantly recognized him. Clark reacted as if he didn't see her first. She invited him to take a seat and they started talking. Clark had to cut it short because he was just on lunch break, but there was neither a lull nor a forced word in those 15 minutes. The conversation wasn't earth-shatteringly deep but the chemistry was comfortable -- like an old favorite song you happened to catch on the radio.

Before he left, Sandra asked Clark if he was going to the party the next day.

"I don't know," he replied. "What does my horoscope say."

She laughed. They exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up at the sandwich shop after work and play it by ear. The next day, Clark brought Elden and Carly while Sandra's friends flaked on her. Carly had the same first year classes at college with Sandra so there was no awkward introduction and ice breaker hullabaloo.

They never went to the party. The topic of Sylvester Stallone was somehow brought up and they ended up ordering pizza and watching Cobra at Clark's place. Right before the big fight scene was coming on, Carly and Elden decided to go to bed and Sandra had dozed off. Clark decided to stop the movie to watch a Cheers rerun. Sandra woke up to Clark's laughter (Woody kissed Sam in a dark office) and laughed at Clark laughing.

That evening they talked about everything but with the casual airiness that usually accompanied talking about nothing. This talk continued for two weeks, with interruptions for work, school and sleep. They spoke to each other about anything and everything. They were entrusting each other with information that would be considered classified for all but their closest friends. They were never uncomfortable hearing those things and never felt vulnerable saying those things.

He told her about his parents' ailment and how he felt like he let them down by not becoming a neurosurgeon. Her reaction was when he realized how she never felt sorry for him, but rather an empathy that you could see radiate around her. When people would tell him that everything will be okay or to that he was lucky with what he had so far or told him that they was sorry, he felt like they were programmed as human beings to be polite -- a detached segment of their voice that subtly exposed that they had nothing to lose when saying that. Sandra would say the same thing, but he felt and knew she had an investment in his heart.

One month after watching Cobra, they were sitting on his couch watching Rocky 4. When they held hands, it was as if the entire space of the universe was confined in that living room: just Clark, Sandra, Drago and Rocky.

At this point in the story, Clark asked Greg for a cigarette. They were at a red light.

"I've never seen you smoke before, Clark."

"Well, yeah. I figure it's my birthday week so I might as well indulge."

Greg obliged, lighting another cigarette up.

Re-telling the story, Clark's feelings resurfaced at it's maximum. He was talking about the only person who knew how he imagined stranger's parents fucking and understanding why he did that.

Although they were old feelings, the still felt immediate. Although they were immediate, they were still old feelings and those feelings at the start of the relationship begat uglier later feelings in different stages of the relationship that were harder to stomach. It saddened him that he even thought they way he thought. He thought differently now, hindsight tends to do that. It couldn't change the fact that on the way to the cemetery, Clark knew he and Sandra would never be the same age again.

Six months into their relationship Clark graduated from State with a degree in Library Science. He also graduated with a debt that would probably force him to take extra janitorial duties at whatever library he would work at.

While Sandra bulleted her way to four straight years at school, working full time at a medical supply store, Clark wobbled through three schools and four majors in six years. Going from Neurology to Library Science felt like buying a Lotto ticket and settling for it to just be scratch paper. His parents never showed it, but there was some concern with his future and what he was going to do with it. Sandra by his side did eased them their worry.

Clark was not only aware of how his folks felt but silently agreed with them. He didn't feel inferior to Sandra, but all signs pointed to him being inferior and it became hard to stop listening. Clark understood that his lack of a professional career was an issue with Sandra's parents, a well meaning duo of pediatricians. To them, every day she was with Clark seemed like another day he was derailing her from Med school. She was studying for her MCATs after a year and a half moratorium from school.

On their one year anniversary, Sandra had been accepted to her dream school in the east coast. They had always supported each other to the point that Sandra had already decided to be a Neurosurgeon. He was ecstatic for her, but at the same time felt a sense of emptiness. What she offered him seemed more than what he could offer her. He felt guilty for feeling guilty.

His job was a shortage control analyst for the same company that employed his father -- a chain store that sold defective brand name clothing at a lowered price. It was his job to make sure all stores don't run out of things to sell. It was an entry level corporate position with potential for upward mobility, but it was not something he had envisioned for the rest of his life. They had discussed him moving with her to Washington, D.C.. The was not remotely considered a deterrent to that option. It was his parents and the idea of potentially abandoning them when the symptoms struck. Although testing for Huntington's had been available since 1983, both Monica and Ivan had never sought that option (though the idea had been in their minds since discovering the breakthrough). It wasn't so much finding out if they themselves were diagnosed, it was the fate of their partner that paralyzed them. Both of them had been through the tumult of watching a parent struggle and couldn't bear to know the future just to prepare with coping a second time around.

Sandra understood -- sometimes more than Clark really -- and even considered going to a school closer to him. It was an idea Clark blanched at simply because of the loftiness of the compromise. Since he couldn't meet her halfway, why should she budge one step at all?

With the looming idea of distance between them, the itching suspicion of being more dispensable hung like a hooked lure in front of him which begat his resentment. Why be dependent on someone else, he had asked himself. Relationships were theoretically ideal when two independent beings were able to share the same love and were cool when the time had come to move on. He made it a point not to take the relationship seriously, which triggered an unnerving feeling of loneliness, a feeling he was never aware of until she arrived to fill that reservoir.

If you were to ask Sandra, she had never seen it the way he had and Clark knew it. He wasn't perfect, but she saw something Clark didn't see in himself and it was this hindsight that had Clark apologizing to the ghosts.

On March 12, 2006 -- seven months before his 24th birthday -- was the date when every insecurity he held inside decided it couldn't stay fettered. Sitting indian style in front of each other, eating burritos, they had a staring contest. Behind her was their desktop computer, photos of their trip to Big Sur as their screen saver. To distract her, he spit guacamole into his hand. She retaliated with smearing sour cream on face like war point. After two minutes, they called a truce, promising to blink on the count of three. She blinked and he didn't. Surrounding the bed was scattered junk, a forest of clothes, fast food receptacles and papers. They cleaned it together every Sunday. They called it "Gardening Day".

"I cheated," Clark said.

"What do you mean," asked Sandra.

"When we both counted to three, I didn't blink. I'm sorry I was just making sure if you blinked too."

Sandra laughed, punching him on the shoulder.

"You kind of are a bitch, then," she said jokingly. "Your punishment can only be a bitch slap as stated in the rules and regulations of Staring Contest LLC."

"Bring it," Clark said, playing along.

Leaning forward, he anticipated the slap. Sandra opened her right fist, cocked back and slowly directed the palm of her hand towards Clark's face. Just before lightly tapping his face, Clark ducked and spun her around to push her against the bed. He got on top of her and started kissing Sandra. She looked away.

"Clark, I kind of don't feel good right now."

"What do you mean?"

"It's nothing to be alarmed about, babe."

Nothing to be alarmed about infers that something might alarm him, a pre-emptive strike from being alarmed. This worried Clark.

"What is it?"

"I've just been feeling off lately, you know. And I'm sorta late."

Clark rolled off of her and laid beside her.

"So you're feeling off like morning sickness and a nausea-sort-of-off?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. It might be in my head. Craving Mexican hella didn't help."

Clark laughed. The image of Sandra waking up and deciding to lust after Mexican dudes couldn't help but fill his mind.

"Why are you laughing," Sandra asked.

"It's juvenile, not worth talking about," Clark answered. "So I'm assuming you're like a week late, right?"

"You're a dumbass. But yeah a little over a week."

"Why am I a dumbass?"

"You're laughing because I said that I was craving Mexican you pervert. I know it."

They shared a laugh, Clark denying her accusation and saying it was about The Mexican starring Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts. It wasn't exactly a shining moment in his history of making shit up.

"So," Clark continued. "That's not too long, right. I don't know, but what do you think about this? Have you felt sick for all those days?"

She sighed.

"A couple days I've been sick. I'm thinking too many things, honestly. Seriously Clark, a lot has happened within the year and it's leading up to a whole lot happening this upcoming year. I'm afraid, excited and everything in between and I just think it's making my body feel like shit. I do know that if something is there," pointing to her stomach, "I know it was made out of love."

Clark inched closer to her on the bed.

"Listen," he answered. "If Nino or Josephine is closer than we imagine, you do know I support you and whatever you choose to do. But I don't want you to fuck up your life. You are on the path to great great things, babe. Staying here, derailing that plan -- I couldn't live with myself."

Sandra sat up.

"Why do you use those words, fuck up my life?"

"I'm sorry. You know what I mean. I didn't mean to use those words. C'mon though you're brilliant. I walk around and see people surrounding me with these I-could've-faces, looking at the world yearning for an alternate universe. They seek refuge in hoping that universe they think about at least exists somewhere. And I know how you are."

"How am I," Sandra curtly asked.

"You're great. Everything I admire about the world. Your empathy, warmth, your ability to see things in a positive light. They way you act like you're not the center of the universe. You take any hurdle and just jump. You just jump and leave everything else to divinity and your faith. At 23 years old, I want you to be the best you can be. People always tell kids when they're younger that you can be anything you want to be if you put your mind to it. You actually accomplished most of it and the dirty work didn't phase you at all. You have more to offer the world than what we are right now and where we're at.. I don't want to be a contributing factor to that I-could've-face, you know."

Clark instinctively put his arm around Sandra. She pulled away.

"Listen to yourself, Clark. Trust me, I know and share your concerns. You know me as much as I know you. Even though you don't outwardly share my faith, you still love life in a manner that God looks for. But you show it in a different way than others; you doubt. You love life by doubting and examining every possibility of it, you're the model Catholic -- guilty on a count of nothing in particular."

"I'm a model human then, not a model Catholic. And why are we talking about this? I was talking about us, about you."

"I think that's what I'm talking about, too."

"OK, it might seem like I'm ready to drive to an abortion clinic right now but I'll support whatever happens 100 percent."

"No," Sandra interrupted. "Let's first acknowledge that they baby isn't even certain for now. And you know what, those I-could've-faces you saw could just be a bad day or it just could very well be because they didn't go through with having a baby. No matter what personal goals they had, in their heart they felt a connection with something and they decided to destroy it. Life isn't about making the right decision. It's about reacting to whatever decision you make. Declaring every action as right or wrong misses the point of it, and you were the one that told me that."

There was a pregnant pause.

"You know I love you," Clark said.

"That's never been an issue," Sandra answered. "I love you too."

"Then you know why I feel the way I feel too," Clark responded.

"I need you with me right now, Clark. I've been telling you about Manila. My cousin's getting married there and I really want to go there to see her and I really want to introduce her to you. I want and need you with me in July, regardless of what's going on in my tummy. Don't be a martyr, please. Let's let whatever will happen happen. I've still got a lot of thinking to do, but I'm confident in what I want in Manila."

"If I can, then I will."

Clark was thinking dichotomously. The path they had chosen together was something he begrudgingly took, but it wasn't as if he didn't have a choice. He was the one who pushed her to stick with Washington, D.C. He was the one who wasn't going to move. If this pregnancy was the real deal, then what his irrational side hoped for would arrive. Sandra staying for a little while longer, the idea of marrying her. What he didn't like was that it would involve an innocent child whose father was not prepared for parenthood and the financial and emotional responsibility it entailed. A father who was unable to figure what to do with his kid when he was still figuring out what to do with himself. He would have a child with a mother who was sidetracked from making good money with something she was not only driven about but loved. The pursuit of self was no longer an option if they had a kid.

"Do you want me to get a pregnancy test," Clark asked.

"Yes, please. Let's go when you're ready."

"No, I'll go by myself. I need to absorb this all and think."

Clark went to the restroom. He didn't need to go. Pants down to his ankles, sitting on the porcelain oval, he scratched his balls and thought about masturbating to relieve stress. He thought maybe Juan Lopez did that when Alice told him she was pregnant with him. Instead, he pulled up his pants and made faces at himself in front of the mirror.

"How do you, how can you, how dare you want and not want at the same time," he asked himself.

Conjuring up a terrible British accent, he answered.

"Because love is a cherished burden. It's better to have something to lose than live by just merely existing... you moron."

He flushed his imaginary dump and left the bathroom.

"I'm sorry about that, Sandra. I love you."

"I love you too."

They kissed and he went to the grocery store.

At the market he grabbed Vitamin D milk, hot cocoa mix, instant coffee (for hot chocolate), chicken stock, carrots, celery (for chicken soup), a six-pack of domestic beer (for himself) and -- after much hesitation -- a pregnancy test (for the both of them).

On his way back, he thought about Manila. It wasn't the first time Sandra had brought it up. Her parents were not too keen on the idea of his going but they put on a polite if not cold facade. He insisted if he did go he'd pay. Although they still offered to buy him a ticket, the idea of reneging his claim would make him vomit.

The thing no one else knew was that he was saving up for an engagement ring before she was accepted to med school. He was unsure of whether or not to propose to her, not because he didn't want to marry her but because it might not be the right time anymore. He didn't want to believe he was doing it to make a last-ditch effort to hold onto her, he wanted to do it because he loved her. Clark felt he needed to establish himself more as an adult. He didn't want her to marry someone so bum-like.

With the pregnancy test in the backseat, he had a revelation. He didn't want her to marry any bum-like person but himself. Whatever would happen, there would be 100 percent commitment from him, even if he had to wait for her. The decision of having the baby if she was pregnant was out of his hands. Knowing her faith in Catholicism, if the test ended up positive she was sure to keep it.

Regardless of the result, he was finally positive of one thing, and that was Sandra Tay was the one he wanted to marry.

He wasn't necessarily prepared but he was willing to accept any responsibility given to him. His concern was always more about how it would have affected her life. His life was a continous cycle of eating, shitting, surviving and breathing. His passion was living. Some people immersed themselves in math or fashion. Although not financially viable, he lived for the nuance of a man eating risotto or the way your breath looks on a cold day. He could sit around and not be bored by anything. It wasn't a strength and it actually gave people the perception that he was aimless (his and Sandra's parents included). His desire of living could withstand whatever confronted him, but he couldn't think about just himself when he thought about what he wanted to do. His desire of just living could withstand whatever confronted him. Sandra's med school was not as flexible, neither was his parents potential for Huntington's. This lack of concrete passion was something she understood and defended to her parents when they told her that his 24-hour introspection on life was just a way to play hooky with responsibility. That he was relying on her future to stay afloat. And maybe they were right, he thought. But he couldn't find anything else he wanted to do but take a walk, and even better than to take a walk with Sandra.

Driving back home, this sort of revelatory thinking had him preparing. He had around $1,600 of engagement ring money and he was ready to buy a ring.

He prepared for all possible responses. He was confident that what they had built up was real, that his concerns over his fear of what he would become was overriden by knowing she loved him for what he was. He decided to tell her after making soup for her. He'd get on one knee without a ring. There was confidence in what he wanted, whether or not he would be a dad.

Through all his plans, he was not prepared for one thing; seeing a charred 1999 Honda Civic flipped over 20 feet from his driveway, a bevy of on-lookers surrounding the lawn, or an ambulance carrying the woman he was planning on marrying along with four teenagers errantly making a right turn while going 125 mph toward his mailbox (where Sandra was getting the mail).

Greg then parked the car.

a "love" poem

you: inconvenience
incapacitating
all that makes me
me.
come back.

i touched myself
thinking of nothing important
and the days i take a
ride on public roads
are the days that
i yearn for sleep.

a monk by design,
i indulge in my dreams.
finding interests in the
insipid, fingers crossed
we agree.
i want "you" more
than i want
you,
as if ideas are more important
than the pleasant view.
love should never be an abstract thought,
it should be bedsheets messy.

trite catchphrase forthcoming:

loose
lips
sink
ships.

the scumbag blues

do you wanna fuck with the scumbag blues,
playing it cool when you get bad news.
sat in little circles filled with 5 people each,
predicting the weather, but everyone agreed
that we were just searching for clues.

welcome everybody to the scumbag blues

the weather is lovelier than you'd presume.
hugs are not enough but they'll surely do.
dug a ditch to ditch this scene,
and waited for the day that this all wasn't true.

i like pillows
and i like stew
i like garlic
i eat food.

i like me
when i like you.
i like you
when i want to.

an ambulance in traffic,
the car in front of it -- the scumbag blues.

Untitled, chapter three

Dre, bleary-eyed and grinning, 0pened the door with a joint in hand.

"Happy birthday," he slurred. He handed Clark the j as a birthday offering.

"Maybe later," Clark replied.

He had known Andre since the first grade and was his best friend since the fourth. Although they lived different lives and had polar opposite opinions on many issues, they always managed to be the older versions of their fourth grade selves when they got together.

Fourth grade also laid claim to one of Clark's favorite birthdays. He had turned nine that year. It was at his house and his mom let him grow out an undercut instead of a regular boy's haircut at the Vietnamese hair salon. When he came home that day, Ivan called him mushroom head Everyone he wanted to invite had arrived. There was no distinct recollection of what music was being played, nor where there any whizbang memorable presents that he received, let alone what thoughts ran through his mind for the entirety of that day. Sandra once suggested this was a reason why it was one of his favorite days, because of its breeziness.

Dre, then skinny and awkwardly tall, had snuck one of his dad's dirty magazines (Cheri, Mar. 1986 -- one of the footnotes he definitely couldn't forget) and all the boys took turns taking looks at the side of the house. It was then he realized that the woman's vagina was not underneath the belly button as he suspected. This revelation had always been the rebuttal to Sandra's theory and she could not argue against it.

Fifteen years later, Dre had a lean, muscular build he sculpted out of an addiction to the gym, a managerial position at the GNC and actively pursuing his dream of becoming a professional mixed martial artist (He was 2-1 at the regional level). He sold pot as supplemental income, something Clark didn't necessarily approve of but at least appreciated the ethics in slanging the most common form of illegal substances. That, and he didn't mind the occasional session free of charge.


Dre's apartment was cleaner than he recalled. Magazines (various fitness, health and pg-13 girlie mags) stacked in order, the carpet immaculate, dishes in the cupboard and ants out of sight. The presumed reason for this was on Andre's couch; his girlfriend Hannah. She had just moved in with him about a week ago. It was a major leap in their five-month relationship.

"Happy birthday Clark," Hannah exclaimed.

She jumped off the couch to give him a hug. "Are you ready to proceed with Operation: Fuck Shit Up?"

Clark laughed while Hannah reached for the joint in Dre's hand. Hannah coined this birthday week as O:FSU three weeks ago. She enjoyed giving things titles and names. Dre's apartment, for example, had been dubbed "Casa De Dipshit". She liked cursewords in her title; the only hint of a peculiar naughtiness for someone otherwise regarded as cherubic.

Operation: Fuck Shit Up spanned six days. It started with brunch at his parents that morning, bar hopping this evening, three days of of work and quality time with his family, camping at his roommate Carly's family's ranch in Willits, then driving out to Napa Saturday night to cap off OFSU with wine tasting on Sunday. Hannah had originally named this week as "Fuck the Dumb Shit, Darling" but "FTDSD" didn't roll of the tongue as well as O:FSU. She liked acronyms.

Clark had known Hannah for seven years as an acquaintance. He trained her at Blockbuster Video on his last day working there and ran into her at various parties, coffee houses and parking lots before she left for UC-San Diego. As small a world as the tri-city area can be, she met Dre and Clark at a billiards place the week after she got back from graduating.

The doorbell had rung, it was Greg and his roomates Elden and Carly (who were an item). Not long after, zig zags were burned, pizzas eaten and mouths moved in consistency and rapidity, but not necessarily saying anything of true importance. This delighted Clark who for the most part took on the role of observer.

Their first stop was Mojo's, a little dive next to Dre's place. Greg was designated driver, a duty that fit him by design. He didn't drink, but he liked being around people who do.

"I enjoy watching you enjoy yourself," Greg said. He spoke slow and loud, as if choosing each word carefully and then claiming the confidence of his vocabulary decisions by raising his volume.

A very timid but meathead looking punk band were performing at the bar. He knew the bassist from high school. He didn't know him that well, but was aware that he had two kids from two different women and also had blown $7,000 in Vegas last year. Clark didn't know why he knew this information as it was knowledge never sought. It kind of disgusted him.

"What are we toasting to," Hannah asked.

"Acquired knowledge," Clark said. "To acquiring more."

They raised their shot glasses. The Jack Daniels burned his throat and with that the night started.

As it went on, they went to four other bars. Each place blurrier than the next. A cacophony of gibberish bounced into his ears, statements declared that Clark would forget later. Each bar, no matter its local or or ambience or level of attractiveness that surrounded them were all colored the same way. Soul patches, backwards hats, Uggs boots. Dre and Hannah were playing darts, Greg was hitting on a girl at the bar while Carly and Elden were having a cigarette outside. Clark realized he was by himself, eating salty popcorn out of a small wooden bow. He had seen a girl put some money into the jukebox. She had brown hair up to her shoulders and Betty Page ban. She looked like an "Amy". Her shirt was tight fitted and black, exposing a level of perkiness in her breasts. This sight was all he needed to stand up and walk up to "Amy" and the jukebox.

"What songs are you choosing," Clark asked.

"Um, Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Maroon 5."

She looked uninterested at his query, with understandable caution. His eyes were glossy.

"You know there's art to the song selection in a jukebox," Clark slurred. "It's like making a mini-mix."

"That's cool, I just choose songs though," she said with a shrug. "I don't see anything more to it."

"Well, it depends on your goal. Are you choosing strictly for yourself or are you interested in changing the atmosphere of the bar, impressing someone you're with. All these questions should be taken into account, but never consciously because you overthink."

"That's nice," she said. "Enjoy your strategy."

"Amy" walked away.

"Thanks," he said to the back of her shoulders.

Clark fumbled through his wallet for a bill and straightened it out at the edge of the jukebox. Eventually he slid the dollar into the jukebox.

To him, there really was an art to song selection. If you pick a banger first, you ask yourself if you follow it up with some more heat or to let it chill out. With all the forks in the road, consistency was key. You're not DJ'ing a whole set, but it's more like maximizing your money's worth in the most enjoyable manner . He wasn't a fan of three straight rock-out songs or like three straight Eminem songs (just one would be one too many, he thought). There was also the awareness of how the rest of the bar would react, but that isn't the most important factor. The most important is choosing what you like. However, you essentially play a minor role in the difference between getting someone laid or or getting their ass beat. You are responsible for ten minutes of the soundtrack of youself, let alone the entire bar.

E7208 - "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond

It was a fun song and most people know the cheesy sing-along to the chorus. It was a mood lightener and he wanted to hear it.

L6603 - "Today Was A Good Day" by Ice Cube

Continuing along the path of feel-goodery, this was perfect and it was his birthday so damn right it was good day, he thought.

To finish this sequence, he felt something uptempo and corny was in order. He thought "Whoomp! There It Is" would be perfect. Flipping through the song selection, he saw "At Your Best" by Aaliyah which held sentimental value. He mumbled to himself that he would regret choosin the song. Tag Team, for Christ's sake, was only a couple pages away. He flipped to Tag Team and punched the numbers: H5406.

Greg walked up to him, with two ladies in tow.

"Hey bro," Greg said. "this is Emily and Janet. Janet and Emily, this is the birthday boy"

They both wished him a happy birthday and he smiled back and said thank you. Greg put his arm around Clark's shoulder.

"What songs did you choose," asked one of the girls.

"I uh, I forgot."

They sat down with the girls at their table.

"So how old are you now," the same girl asked

"Sixty-seven," he said.

"Wow you've aged terribly," she joked.

He didn't know if this girl was Janet or Emily. It was Emily.

"Yeah, I'm 24."

"Oh, me too."

She was to his right. To his left, the couples were discussing their future children's first names. Andre was trying to change the subject, but to no avail.

Emily told Clark that he looked familiar.

"Really," Clark said. "It's a small town. We've probably ran into each other."

"Fremont's the third-largest city in Northern California," Emily answered, kind of embarrased she knew that information. "The city's not small, it's the world that's small."

"What do you mean," he asked.

She laughed.

"I don't know really but I do know, you know. I've lived in Dublin, Chicago and I'm here now and it's just that you're always going to run into people anywhere."

"You've got a point," he replied. He didn't understand what she meant. He was focused on staying upright.

He looked at her to see if she looked familiar. His world was spinning. He was three sheets in the wind.

Clark excused himself to the restroom. He stumbled passed the table and dragged his feet towards the toilet. In the stall, he bent over and vomited. When he left the restroom, he saw the table with his friends to his left. On the opposite side was the exit. He proceeded to go in that direction.

Ten minutes had passed and Dre went to check on him. Clark was nowhere to be found. They tried calling him, but there was no reply. At that moment, "At Your Best" came up on the bar's sound system.

Dre groaned, aware of what was going on.

"I think I know where he is," Dre said. He looked at Greg and asked if they could drive to Hayward.

In a cab going down Mission Blvd, Clark was belching his way into sobriety. His initial plan was to sneak into the cemetery, visit Sandra and return to the bar with nary a commotion. Now he figured he can just get as close as he can to her on his birthday, call up his friends and tell them to meet up at Denny's or something.

He checked his phone. It verified him that he missed 7 calls. He mass-texted everyone "meet me at denny's hayward i'll explain"

As he sat there, sitting in absolute silence with a stranger driving, he was realizing the stupidity of this folly. He was doing so well, he thought. He hadn't cried in at least three weeks. He was starting to eat regularly, was going back to the gym. He thought maybe his therapist was right, maybe he needed to take something chemically in a non-recreational manner.

The phone rang. It was Hannah.

"Clark, where are you buddy? You got us scared over here."

"Listen Hannah, I understand if you guys are mad at me. I don't blame you one bit, I don't even know why I did that back there."

"We'll meet you at Denny's then. We'll talk there."

"Thanks."

A different voice came on the phone. This time, it was deeper, louder and agitated. It was Dre's.

"You're lucky it's your birthday man. I need you to stay awake. Stay awake on the phone with me. Go to Denny's right now."

Clark sprawled himself across the whole backseat of the cab.

"It's you're birthday man, we're here for you. Don't ever think we're not."

He told the cab driver, a middle-aged foreigner who seemed to be to have an ethnicity with an "-ian" suffix, to just go straight to Denny's off of Industrial Blvd.

"Hey Dre," Clark said.

"What's up?"

"Ours was Josephine and Nino."

"Excuse me?"

"Our baby names. We had decided on Josephine and Nino."

There was some silence.

"Cool, man. Why'd you guys choose those names?

"We just liked them and found a million reasons after," Clark said. "That's always what it was with us. Initially there is no reason. We just found a spot we liked on the ground with their names on it and dug deeper to validate."

He was about five minutes away from Denny's and told Dre the E.T.A. and that the phone battery was dying and that he was ok and they can get off the phone. Dre relented, but was assured by Clark again.

When he hung up the phone, the cab driver looked up at him through the rear-view mirror.

"You okay, buddy," the man asked

"I'm alright man, thanks."

"That's good buddy," the man spoke in a thick Russian accent. "That's good. I am not fully understanding of your problem It is special to you of course. I get it, but I want to tell you it is none of my business but I hope you hope and think. I hope you hope you know that you are not the first to experience what it is you experience. I do not know what it is, your problem. But great men have had an experience as unoriginal as yours."

"Yeah," Clark interrupted, a bit agitated. "I know, thanks."

"Great men, lesser men," he continued without missing a beat. "I am taking you to this restaurant. Look around you when you are eating. Everyone will have a penis or a vagina. Everyone will be owner of a heart. I do not know of your dilemmas. You are young, you are strong, you will have many more stories for your organs. You are in America. I am older. I was young in Estonia. Let stories be stories. Let living be living. You will be fine, buddy. Just remember that."

"Ok, chief," Clark said in a patronizing manner. "I appreciate it."

Clark was somewhat insulted at the assumption of a lack of severity of his predicament, but the cab driver was right and any type of insecurity of justifying the amount pain he was feeling would have just been vanity. And although he wasn't fine, it can be said he felt a little better. He checked the name of the cab driver off of his license plate. It was Rein Oras.

"I hope I am not making big problem small," Rein said apologetically. "We know nothing of each other and I give you advice. I apologize. I am all ears if you want."

"I wouldn't know where to start," Clark said.

"Start where you feel," Rein interrupted.

There was a pregnant pause. Clark's face scrunched up as if trying to force all the parts of his face into the center, towards his nose.

"I don't know, I don't feel sorry myself if that's what people think. I don't feel sorry for myself. It's like trying to find a line between accepting the world as it is, being genuinely content with what I have and at the same time knowing that shit happens and sometimes that it is heavy and making sure it is heavy without sugar-coating it. Once in awhile I get close enough to someone that I want to bring it up but when I do I am expecting either someone treating it like information that they are burdened with or someone compelled to try to cheer me up when I all needed was to let it out before it festered into my soul. I guess I loss that outlet and that's why I got in this cab. I guess I'm chasing ghosts."

Rein nodded.

"My parents, my adopted parents have Huntington's disease in their genes. It's this stupid disease where basically as you get older you have a higher possibility of your brain turning on you, incapable of rational thought and eventually you start twitching and and can't swallow I mean it's way more complicated than that, but basically when I was younger I saw my grandparents on both sides who had it. You stop becoming human. When they passed away it was like watching die a second time. They adopted me because it is a dominant trait, that they didn't want to bring another person into the world with what they feel, so they adopted me from a small different part of the world and sometimes I feel ungrateful thinking how it would've turned out if they just didn't care, if I just didn't have to worry about that. I am saying that without seeking sympathy, without looking for an answer. I just want to say that because it is a fact, but people expect themselves to try to sugar coat it as if I would love them more if I just look away and think happy thoughts. Do you understand that?

I just feel that I should be with my friends right now. It's like, what 1:30am. And I let them down, chasing ghosts."

The car pulled up into Denny's.

"We're here my friend," said. "By the way my name is Rein."

He extended his arm out for a handshake.

"My name is Clark, and thanks for the ride among other things."

Clark gave him a twenty dollar tip and he smiled.

"I will pray for you, if you would like," Rein said.

"Thanks, buddy."

He left the cab, wishing he told Rain it was not necessary and a waste of time to pray for him but he wanted to be polite. It was queer, he thought, how he can easily open to a fleeting stranger more easily than to his closest friends. On the way to the door, he counted how many people were arriving, told the hostess accordingly and took a seat for himself.

He imagined Rein's conception between a man who loved his wife, and a wife who couldn't let go of another man.

Greg's silver Vanagon arrived shortly thereafter. When they entered, Clark sheepishly put his arms out palms upward on the table and apologized.

"We were worried about you," Carly said. "Everyone chimed in, pretty much making it a consensus opinion.

"I'm sorry guys, I guess I just really wanted a meat lover's skillet."

Clark was joking, but no one reacted accordingly. Hannah gave him a hug.

"You definitely fucked up Operation: Fuck Shit Up, Clarky," she joked. Clark smiled back.

"I guess I uh misinterpreted this mission title," he replied.

Dre looked at him, smiling, obviously drunk.

"Let's get that meat lover's skillet, Superman."

He reconnected to his thought process from before he left the bar. He told them about Rein and his advice. Hannah took a liking to his story.

Waiting for a check, there was a collective silence around the table that lasted for a couple of seconds until Elden interrupted.

"They say that when there is a random silence like that, an angel's passing by."

The silence returned until the check arrived.

It was almost three o'clock and everyone had work within six hours at the earliest. lark insisted he pay for his own meal, but majority ruled and the bill was finally paid.

Elden, Carly and Greg were smoking outside. The others stood with them, watching as cars would slip in and out of their peripheral vision.

Elden put his arm around Clark. Clark looked at Elden. Elden was looking at the floor. There were tears in his eyes.

"It's been seven months now, and I don't know if you want to hear this but it's like we're mourning two deaths here. We care for you Clark, and we care for Sandra still. People say time heals all wounds. We just got to stop peelings the scabs."

"Thanks, true," Clark answered. "I'm sorry you're right."

"You know I'm not saying to forget he," Elden continued. "There's just a way to remember without torturing yourself about it."

Clark laughed. Elden laughed and eventually everyone started laughing for no reason. They piled into the van and made their way home. Greg dropped of Dre and Hannah first. When they reached Clark's, Elden and Carly's place Greg asked to use the restroom. Elden and Carly went straight to their room, while Clark waited for Greg in the living room. When Greg came out, he pulled his keys out of his pocket and looked right at Greg.

"What time does the funeral place close," he asked.

"Why?"

"To visit your Sandra."

"We got work tommorow man, we need to get some sleep."

"Oh c'mon my nigger," Greg said in the most awkward way imaginable. "We got work at 12 and our job is to punch numbers. I can be a mummy and still accomplish my job. I'll pick you up at 10, pare."

Clark offered the couch instead, giving him a set of pillows and blanket. It was almost 4 o'clock.

Lying in his bed, he stared at the ceiling humming a song he made up.

"I'm sorry for the ghosts
the ghosts in the house tonight
don't mean to be a bitch
and i promise i'll make it right."

He waited for a reaction from the ghosts he knew where there. When there was enough time to receive one, he closed his eyes instantly and went to sleep.

He didn't hear me, but I told him he didn't need to apologize.

Untitled, chapter two

He made up the date: New Year's Eve 1981.

He made up names: Juan Lopez and Alice Alindogan. As he grew the circumstances he invented changed, but those details remained.

When he first learned about the birds and the bees (sixth grade), he stirred up the possible conclusions to which he ended up being born. At first he wanted to believe he was birthed from a long-term relationship. As the years passed, his imagination eventually scattershot into a tree of paths in which his consummation could have been a product of sex-drives, infidelity, alcohol-fueled or just out of boredom.

His adoptive parents, Ivan and Monica Henry, told him that they flew into the Philippines, looking to adopt a child. They arrived at the convent and were briskly introduced to a two year-old Clark Kent sitting idly in the center of a rug and staring ito the ceiling. The nuns had taught him how to speak English and his favorite word was "okay".

Ivan asked hm when his birthday was. Sister Rose answered for him; September 12, 1983. It was the only note left in the basket where he was found.

Clark didn't remember a second of this encounter. His first vivid memory was waking up to an empty house when he was four years old, thinking his parents had abandoned him. He looked everywhere, even in the cupboard.

Little Clark cried for five minutes until his parents came in from the front door, with Rice-A-Roni received from their neighbors. He couldn't recall if this all really happened, maybe it was a dream. Regardless, this was his first memory.

Monica told him that the nuns found him in a basket like in the movies. All that was left was a note with his birthdate and a request: "Forgive me and take care of him, Lord." The whole thing reminded Father Rene of "Superman" and the name Clark Kent stuck. The Henrys liked the name and the story behind it so much they decided to keep it.

Monica and Ivan would joke about how he was from Krypton. When they told him that, Clark imagined a small pocket of the Philippines similar to that distant planet. He imagined his biological father, Juan Lopez, in Krypton with his brothers and sisters, He imagined his mother looking out the window, waiting for Clark's return. He felt guilty of these daydreams because he had loving parents who never abandoned him. He surmised that those thoughts were betraying what he already had. But it never left, it just hibernated.

"We don't need Superman," his mom would tell him. "Clark Henry doesn't need a secret identity."

But for some reason, he was sure his last name had been Lopez.

Roughly 24 years and nine months after his conception, he still imagined their names: Juan lopez and Alice Alindogan. He imagined the date: New Year's Eve 1981. He imagined me and "Alice" at a parking lot of some bar. "Summer Breeze" by Seals and Croft was playing. It lasted four minutes, the song and the lovemaking.

Clark got out of his car and made his way to Andre's apartment.

"I love you," Jose must have said. "Mahal na mahal na mahal kita."

"I love you too," Alice would have responded.

His phone rang. It was his mom.

"I just want to say thank you for having breakfast with us this morning," Monica said. "We don't get to see you often."

"Shit, mom," Clark answered. "It's my birthday. Sacramento isn't too far of a drive. It's my birthday I need to see you guys."

"I love you Clark," she whispered.

"I love you too, mom."

Untitled, Chapter One

The difference between eating by yourself and eating with yourself is the difference between solitude and independence. Clark was well aware of that conundrum 15 minutes ago when he checked his fridge, 10 minutes ago when he went in his car and two minutes ago when he walked into a local Greek restaurant. He had hummus in the refrigerator at home.

Sitting in the table he was aware of the difference to the point of self consciousness. His demeanor was the only thing that separated an image of loneliness or relative anonymity when eating in front of the occasional nosy patron, let alone most of the employees of Apostolis Greek Restaurant. He recalled a lunch break last week with Greg at a fast food chicken restaurant chain.

"I miss eating this back home," Greg had told him. "Back home you get unlimited gravy for your chicken and you get rice. I would use the gravy for sabaw."

"Sabaw," Clark asked?

"Like soup," Greg replied. "Parang sabaw."

Clark tried to mimic Greg's tagalog, unable to avoid masking a thick ignorant American accent.

"Par-ug suhb-ow."

Greg laughed.

"I know you're adopted by non-Pilipinos, god damn son of a," Greg said in his own adopted version of the English language. "But you're Pilipino. You look more Pinoy than me. You have a dark complexion. moreno. Your height is like a point guard. You are no question 100% Pilipino whatsoever your citizenship says. I will help you be Pilipino like you are helping me be American."

"Thanks," Clark answered.

What Clark remembered most that day was how they were sitting at an elevated table.

Greg was talking and Clark was listening, bu the majority of his attention was on this man eating by himself about ten feet away.

Watching him from behind, the first thing he noticed was a bald spot. The back of his head was a patchy island of flesh surrounded by a sea of white hair. What had struck him soon afterwards was this gentleman's overall appearance; The left part of his collar was up, his white oxford shirt was wrinkled, the bottom part of his pants frayed and muddy from being too long for his legs and constantly being stepped on by his dirty old sandals.

As ruffled and frumpy as this man's appearance had been, he managed an air of dignity while dining. His posture was impeccable, his body at a right angle where his torsos met. He used the plastic knife and spork like he was eating with royalty. His tall drink in a paper cup was placed on a napkin, a makeshift coaster. Clark's admiration was reserved and silent.

At work, flooded with errands, he paused for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. Clark picked up the phone and dialed the number he remembered by heart and vowed never to forget. To his surprise, the line was still working. He heard Sandra's voice and closed his eyes. This time, he left a message.

"Hey, it's Clark. I went to church for the first time in ages last Sunday. I talked to God but didn't ask for anything, made no requests. I used words like 'faith' and 'hope' and 'understanding'. I stood up when everyone else stood up and kneeled when everyone else did. I felt like I was part of a community, but ath the same time I felt like I wasn't invited. I know it's weird that I'm leaving a message to you but I needed to tell someone and you were always that someone so I felt compelled to call you."

He hung up and carried on with his work for the rest of the day.

At the Greek restaurant, eating he sat and ate as if someone was watching him from ten feet away. He dipped his fries meticulously, chewed thoroughly and kept his elbows off the table. He couldn't imagine who would be looking at him, but he owed it to himself if someone was. There was a toddler running around the place as if he owned the world, careless with the space surrounding him. He smiled at the kid and the child smiled back. He thought about the consummation of the child and the circumstances surrounding it. He did the same with the old man at the chicken joint. The images conjured up were graphic but they weren't pornographic. Everyone had a story for thier birth, he thought. Everyone had a beginning to their creation, something that led up to the present events unfolding. For him, something was the genesis to this exact point in their lives. Like right now, all these little things from the last 24 yours had led him to this exact moment; eating alone on his birthday at 3:32 p.m.

Later tonight he was planning on the some controlled debauchery with his friends. For now, however, he savored this lunch regardless of it being in a vacuum of either loneliness or singularity. That distinction was not for him to decide.

Jorge Bocobo

Up and down the street
every dog was barking,
as if holding a council meeting
on the burgeoning
cat problem in the area.

The sun missed last night's events,
arriving just in time for
the bleary-eyed stumblers
marking their territory with
scattered beer bottles and
cigarette butts; hailing cabs from
taxi drivers who have no choice but
to hear their selfish stories.

But every step of the pavement
announced a squeak of my shoes,
which signaled to everyone
(the lady breastfeeding
her daughter, the panhandler
looking for hope in his plastic cup
and the guard trying to stay awake)
that I was headed in their direction.

The dogs had adjourned their meeting
and I just looked forward,
pretending I wasn't aware of
my smudged finger prints
drawing attention from
a picture that wasn't mine.

A nice "Warren Moon" racism anecdote/conspiracy theory courtesy of mavpa from the Raven Mack message board.

Like, 4:40 in the morning, we got some Waylon on, drinking beers and water, trying to sober up a little bit... and he's got a bottle of El Toro tequila. Takes a big swig and stares up in the sky and is like "One day... they're gonna be flying through space and they're gonna find him."

"A white man."

He goes on to relay his theory, which is remarkably similar to eary Elijah Mohammed stuff, about how white people are aliens and they came to the Earth and lived here, but black people are the real people of the Earth.

Continue the conspiracy theory here.

MEMOIRS OF A SCAVENGER (Requiem For A Rodent)

Prologue
Taken from the teachings of my late brothers, I have learned many things. I have also practiced their theories and managed to learn much more than they had hoped. I too have passed on this knowledge to the younger ones in the nesting grounds, with unremarkable success.
I fear at times, watching some of them scurry out of our shelter to never return, that the knowledge I have passed on will die as each of one of us perishes as well. When I had momentarily separated from my mentors, this most likely must have also been their fear. Each one of them must have ceased to exist with a despair that their collection of knowledge were in vain.
Their own histories have been erased, as our means of communication were limited to the importance of our present survival. My communication has somewhat advanced, but I still can not articulate what I want outside of the basics animal needs.
It is for this reason -- along with the fear of of my children's death and my last moments of breath -- that I feel I should communicate my learnings, to pass on for future generations.
The words that are written are ideas and culled directly from my mind; my memories and my thoughts. It is with of utmost confidence that Ingmar Black, who is penning this in my absence of verbal comprehension (in the human form) and opposable thumbs, can somehow communicate with my fellow "rats", as he has supposedly titled us, when I pass.

Ingmar
I am currently writing after Cecil had passed on and might I fucking say I am still in a state of surrealistic mindfuckery at this moment. I had decided to put this into the prologue to serve as an introduction to the rats I will attempt to communicate with, as it is now my duty as a messenger to (sic) Cecil.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Ingmar Black and I am in shock right now. Holy shit. He had no name, but we compromised with Cecil. The names of fellow rats have been created because of the simple fact that you do not call each other names for obvious reasons.
Cecil and you all have been nesting in my house for quite awhile now. We've put out rat traps, but the success rate was below-average in all honesty and now that I've heard his story I somewhat understand.
My roommate Dave and I have been somewhat skeptical about the use of coagulated poisons or use of other hazardous chemicals in regards to vermin control. For this reason, we contacted Lake Tahoe's Wildlife Control for information about driving rodents from the house, without actually killing them. You can say I am what people tend to refer as a hippy, so in that sense you should feel very lucky that his one chance for a conduit was me. Unfortunately, my roommate Dave isn't. He persuaded me to just sneak in about a pebble-sized amount of LD-50 into specific locations for you to find and eat.
Unfortunately, this is where Cecil comes in. Miraculously, I heard him. And he heard me. It was not as if we spoke the same words, but we understood each other. When I had informed him of what was inside the crumbs of bread he had nibbled on, he was very lucid and accepting. This, at around 3 a.m., was when asked me to deliver his message to you because of the fact we were able to communicate.
By communication, it was all mental wavelengths and I was able to translate it into my language.
With this out of the way, I would like to relay his tale and his vastless knowledge accumulated through experience in order to help you guys out and one day maybe you can reach an understanding, man-to-rat. We have a lot more in common than you think.

lets

Let's give this a shot.