Guano Tales (with revisions and 2nd installment)

Willy Offenheimer smoked too much. Yellow-gray nails and teeth caused him to resemble a gray-toothed hound more every year; but that was ok, yes, sireee, Bob, he thought, if you got ‘em, smoke ‘em. He’d lived alone since Daddy told him just-where-he-could-go, years back when Willy, now 53, wouldn’t buckle under Daddy’s rule. He was happy¾long as there was work in the day and beer at night. Willy shook loose thoughts of dear Daddy and watched his tattooed right hand slide along the metal banister, making his way up the stairwell to the top¾ten floors¾eight to go, and he was already wheezing and coughing.

Ten minutes ago, when he’d first entered the cool, plant-filled lobby of the Palmas De Majorca condo (with a bat problem) he read the sign on the elevator, “Out of Order.” Damn thing seemed to jeer him, he thought, as if to say¾sorry Willy-boy, you gotta bear a working man’s suffering today. He sputtered out loud, “God-dammit¾well if that don’t figure, yesssiree, Jeeesuz-Almighty” sending little droplets of Willy-spittle flying. The peeved exterminator thought it was like a cruelty at the end of a long, hard week; but, he was mindful, that on occasion, he could take a certain pride in being a bonafide entrepreneur, yes he could. He considered himself akin to the likes of Mr. Trump in that sense¾a stretch some might think, but not Willy¾in his mind a business man was a business man.

As he gave himself over to the verity that he was going to have to climb ten flights of stairs, he recalled the words of a sweet little blonde last night. When he told her his specialty was “bat elimination” the chickee laughed at him, thinking he meant he studied their “bathroom” habits¾and then started calling him “bat-man.” Hell, she was drunk, he thought, and what did I want with a boozy blonde anyhow? Willy knew he was good at what he did, didn’t care what folks thought. He used plastic owls, electronic sound-wave boxes, and one-way netting as deterrents. He’d scrub off the guano¾the fancy word he preferred to poop, shit or dung and the urine smears. He’d sanitize it all, “so the folks livin’ in the condo could go back to feelin’ fresh as Memphis gladiolus, all pink and spring-like,” he liked to say, and he made a right-good dollar at it too, if he said so himself.

Just beyond the lobby table, he’d spotted the metal door to the stairwell, picked up his gear and trudged through. As the door shut, the strike had caught his sleeve at the elbow and he watched in that slow-but-too-fast-to-do-anything-about-it motion that people claim occurs during car wrecks and glass-ware falling. He saw the tear begin at the elbow and felt the metal take a nip-bite at the skin of his wrist. “Dammit¾dammit all” echoed up the stairwell. He pacified himself with thoughts of tacking the damages onto the bill. Hell, he thought¾these high-on-the-hog condo people¾they can afford it¾’sides, climbin’ these stairs is gonna’ flare up my asthma (never mind the smoking) and now here I’m decidedly on-the-job injured, yes, sireee, Bob.

Eighth floor now and Willy pursed his lips¾set his concentration on commanding his legs to move¾his unwavering determination, he knew, sprang from a rebellious spirit, originating from a defiance against his mean, bear-of-a-father, who used to rip into him daily over the family business. Gas stations¾two of them, just north of Memphis¾a pea-sized town called Turrell. He knew the stories, how Daddy’s family used to be in the mule trading business prior to the automobile industry (Daddy’s people always were industrious) but Willy knew he had a greater destiny and remained obstinately indifferent to Daddy’s rules. Daddy got to callin’ him Willy-mule, had a ring to it, Daddy said, so when Daddy gave him an ultimatum, “Daddy’s way or “go away,” in the fall of 1969 he’d headed south, thirty-five years ago¾to Cocoa Beach.

Reaching the tenth floor, finally, he threw open the roof-hatch to the clean, bright sky¾rooftops, he felt, were his own private dominion¾no one to bother him as he worked. Setting up his equipment, he began to swear aloud again. “God-dammit¾where’s my mask?” Always careful to wear a mask around guano, (the stuff not only stank, but it caused a respiratory condition, “histoplasmosis”, a nice, long technical word he thought looked good as a “risk-factor” on his job-quotes¾made his work sound hazardous, his fee more justifiable) he was hot-fuming over the missing mask. “Geez-us criminey, gonna tack on a at-risk fee, yesssirree-Bob!” he said, but only the pelican on the ledge heard his proclamation.  Willy-mule set to scrubbing and scouring, without his mask, thinking about lighting up a smoke, and where he might go for lunch, as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Daydreams and random thoughts blew through Willy’s mind like swamp water through a busted levy¾the clock spun to lunchtime before he’d finished his first pack of smokes. He calculated three hours left to finish cleaning; he’d come back tomorrow, set the bat traps, and agreed with himself it was lunchtime. Descending the stairwell his feet moved to an even tempo¾what goes up must come down popped into his head. Once outside, he lit up a smoke and headed to the van.

He knew where he’d eat¾Little Venice just off the beach on South Atlantic¾maybe Peggy’d be working. Willy steered the old VW to a spot across from the pizza place, checked yellow teeth in the mirror for debris (in case Peggy was working), hopped out, and headed across the street.

A pimply faced kid named “Toby,” according to his nametag, was the only one working the counter besides a guy at the oven. Damn, Willy thought.

“Gimme two pepperoni slices; extra cheese, a order of onion rings and a draft¾make that a light draft¾for here.”

“Seven dollars and nine cents total, sir¾about five minutes¾want the beer now?”

Willy gave him a what-in-the-Sam-hill-hell-do-you-think look. The kid got the message and poured the draft. Willy took a seat at the window. A favorite for lunch (sure he saw the smudgy windows, cracked linoleum, and felt the sticky glass condiment shakers¾but he didn’t care) because he could watch the tourists. Made him happy to think he lived where they vacationed. No back-up-north to some I-hate-my-job for me, he thought. The kid called him to the counter, and now, a triangle of cheese held to his mouth halted¾his hand froze. He couldn’t believe who was on the other side of the fly-swatted window. It had to be, couldn’t be, it was¾Poetry Man Dave! Jesus-Christ-Almighty! Son-of-a-bitch!

Dumbstruck, he dropped the slice to take a quick swig of beer. The old beatnik was dressed in scruffy corduroys, flannel shirt over another, scuffed boots, same old beret, and of all things, a fucking scarf¾95° in the shade and Dave had a fucking scarf on!  The face he once knew as handsome was like sun-baked mud, the hawkish eyes now vague¾so frail and old, he thought, damn, we’re the same age!

Dave dropped a backpack on the concrete, leaned over a city garbage can, and placed both hands on either side. Willy saw the expression contract, as if deciphering an important discovery. Willy sat mesmerized, too stunned to move. “Damn” he said out loud, watching his old friend. What’s he doing? One arm extended into the depths, fishing around¾then up it came with the prize¾seriousness on his face as he examined a fistful of cigarette butts. “Shit, Dave!” Willy said out loud.

“Anything wrong? Pizza too hot Mr.?”

“No, kid, it’s not, not at all,” Willy said sliding off the stool, “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.” He pushed the door open to the past, the tiny bell tingling¾a sign of restless spirits his mama always said¾as he stepped outside.

The Confessional

Quiet hush of the old church¾it’s November, 1960¾my turn for the confessional. I pass the bent woman who just exited the confessional, she is old, so old¾what could she have confessed? Has her faith wavered in her old age? Has she slighted a neighbor? None of my business, I guess I only want a distraction.

Passing through the heavy velvet curtain was like leaving the world of movement behind, left with only the stillness of sin.

“In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost” I said as I bent to the padded kneeler. The little sliding window moved to the left, leaving a yellow tinted screen behind a carved wood grille.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.”

“Yes, I’m here, thy sorrows be bade with sympathy, and unite bitter tears of repentance with the tears of His blood” he says through the little window.

I panic now, the scent of lemon-oil and terebinth all around (and somewhere the scent of eternal death: Hoc est enim Corpus meum)

“You may proceed, I am listening”

I clear my throat, my nervous habit, my “tell.”

“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I say again¾hoping for something more, something less ordinary than this. Nothing comes. I decide I cannot tell my sin, I cannot announce my filthy actions¾what came over me? What agent of the Lucifer tricked me? What will Mother say?

“Yes,” he says, less patient, “Please continue.”

“I spent time at work on a personal phone call,” I lie, not knowing what else to offer up. “And I didn’t tell a store clerk when she undercharged me,” another lie. Christum Dóminum forgive me for telling lies in the confessional.

“Is that your confession? Have you thoroughly examined your conscience? Your Redeemer, you know, beseeches you to confess all transgressions, both great and small.”

“Yes Father, these are my sins”¾do I tell this man, this man in a box, that I have knowingly slept with a married man, a man with a wife and child, that I am no longer a virgin, a clean temple? Do I tell him that I am now with child? A bastard? What could he possibly do? Absolve me and make me pure again? Take this child from my soured belly and let me have my quiet life back?

“I have nothing further Father; I have confessed my sins with all sincerity.”

“Well then, daughter in Christ, I ask that O Almighty God, Who, according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies has vouchsafed once more to receive they prodigal child. Pray the Rosary twenty-five times, The Our Father thirty and ask the Blessed Virgin for guidance in your daily life. Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labilis tuis.”

“Thank you Father.” I said, my right hand making the sign of the cross at my forehead, over my lips and heart. I rose from the kneeler and exited. I didn’t stop to make the recommended prayers¾the wooden doors waited¾get through them and outside. The safety and sanctity of the church, like my chastity, were soiled now. I thought of St. Leo the 1^st, how with his eloquence he had overcome Attila the Hun, and I couldn’t even confess my sins, behind a privacy screen to the Parrish priest.

Back on the sidewalk, I realized I was really frightened. I wasn’t afraid of the possible impending fires of Hell that might surely wait for me at the end of my life for my sins committed¾no¾I was afraid of the life that would grow in me, of the person it would become. I was frightened of the questions it might ask someday, and the winter she (would it be a girl?) might come to feel for me when I refused to answer her questions. Would I resent her for reminding me of my sin? Would I see his eyes in hers? I decided then and there, no matter the cost I would never discuss my transgression. I would live as saintly as possible, take no selfish joy¾

Guano Tales

Willy Offenheimer smoked too much. His yellowed nails and blackening teeth caused him to resemble a grey-toothed hound more every year; but that was okey-dokey with him, yes-sir-ee-Bob-indeed, it was just fine, mighty fine. He’d lived alone all his life since his Daddy told him just where he could go years back when Willy wouldn’t buckle under Daddy’s rule, and sure ‘nough no woman ever talked him into settin’ up housekeepin’ neither. He was happy as is, long as there was work in the day and beer at night. These thoughts pervaded him momentarily, as he watched his right hand slide along the metal banister, making his way up the stairwell to the top¾ten floors¾eight to go and he was already wheezing and coughing.

When he’d first entered the condo and saw the jeering sign, “Out of Order,” he sputtered, “God-blessed-almighty¾ elevator’s busted, well if that don’t just make my little visit here a pleasant one, yesssirrry, indeed.” Willy was an exterminator, whose specialty as of late was bats. When he’d first found out what a nuisance the critters were on the gulf coast, he was surprised, but what was more amazing was that folks were willing to pay a might-good dollar for his services. Willy would set up to keep the bats away: plastic owls, electronic sound-wave boxes, and one-way netting. Then he’d scrub and clean the guano¾the fancy word he preferred to poop, shit or dung and the urine smears. He’d sanitize it all, “so the folks livin’ in the condo could go back to feelin’ fresh as Memphis gladiolus, all pink and spring-like.”

Just beyond the lobby marble-table, he’d spotted the metal door (unlike the la-de-da one residents and guests used) to the stairwell, picked up his gear and trudged through. As the door swung shut, the strike on the latch caught his sleeve and bestowed him a vicious tear and caught is flesh. “Dammit, Dammit all,” he griped, “should sue these high-on-the-hog con-do people¾gonna’ flare up my asthma (never mind the smoking) and now I’m decidedly injured¾on the job¾sending them a bill for my troubles, I am.”

Eighth floor now, two more to go, Willy pursed his lips, set his concentration on commanding his legs to move. Always determined he was, ever since his mean bear-of-a-father ripped into him daily over the family business. Gas stations¾two of them, just outside of Memphis¾in a pea-sized town named Turrell. Daddy’s family used to be in the mule tradin’ business prior to the automobile industry (Daddy’s people always were always on the industrious side) but since he was a little boy, Willy had a mind his own¾independent-like.  Willy was so stubborn, Daddy got to callin’ him Willy-mule¾had a kind a ring to it, Daddy said. When Daddy gave him an ultimatum, his way or go away, Willy took off for Florida and never looked back.

He reached the top, finally, and threw the roof-hatch open to the clean, bright sky, all Willy’s now, no one to bother him as he worked. He got to settin’ up his equipment, but started soon to swear again. “God-dammit, dammit all¾where’s my mask?” Willy always wore his mask around guano, the stuff not only stank, but it caused a respiratory condition, histoplasmosis (Willy liked to throw this in on his fee-estimates; it made his work sound more dangerous and his fee more justifiable) which was akin to a nasty-flu-like condition. “Geez-us criminey, gonna sue these yahoo-socialites and big-whigs for that too, yesssirr, I am!” But Willy-mule set to scrubbing and scouring, without his mask, as the sun rose a little higher by the minute.

French Connections

Hmmmmm, we must participate in Wiki pages and create a blog for our class participation---the blog must be a Wordpress blog, so here's mine:

http://uneilienne.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=5&action=edit&message=6

A Summer Chronicle of Learning French

Click here to view: My Text for the Class

Today I start my online French course--I'm excited, but aprehensive--should I be? In order to have fun with it, I'm going to incorporate it into my fiction class I have--and see what the results may be--if I knew how to say something clever in French I would, but I can only offer, Je m'appelle Judith. Et toi? (or Et vous? if I don't know you well, or if I respect you, or if there's a lot of you, brilliant so far, yes?)

Look For It In The Details: Island Architecture

Recently we spent 18-hours in Old San Juan; within her streets were limitless evidence of our need for beauty amidst function. I don't want to infringe on their seperate voices with my own words here; however I'll use selected groups and individual details for later work

She Is

She

is an alien bound to a small planet

a foreign planet—

born too late and born too soon

A hippie, an anarchist, an illegitimate

 late blooming instigator

a tail-end-baby-boomer

and generation-x misnomer

She is a water woman

a weaver of palms and

a bearer of colors and children

She is an alien bound to a shrinking planet

in her textiles and silver

A mother she is to

those on the fringe

She is her own sky

above her with shared

rivers that flow free

southwards toward

Summerland

She hears

the life in

each grass-weed’s whisper

and hums watery notes of anticipation

Harvest Time

Harvest Time

Humidity gives way to blue skies covering golden Indiana fields under cloudless October days, eventually surrendering to dust and the drone of corn dryers laboring on the farms.

The no-longer-suffering-farmer has swept his field clean of what she would produce for him, as he demands year after year of her waning fertile ground, plowing over her, never digging too deeply.

Grain dryers whirr the air, eliminating the moisture from the yellow cobs, which, huddled together in massive aluminum silos rise high against the evening sky with the waxing moon.

Somewhere on Belshaw Road she listens to the roar of the farm machinery and tries to avoid winter thoughts, the coming bareness of the fields, stripped of their green and golden jewels, laying in wait for the hard frost.

Blue sky of October gives way to four-shades-of-gray and the promise of bitter wind and acrid smoke along stripped farm fields with naked rows running north and south waiting—waiting for shreds of hope.

Late November the yellow kernels torn from their cobs leave the vacuity of their silver tombs, thrust rudely into daylight to the waiting diesel trucks; taking them far away from their fields of cultivation to be thought of no more.

She hears all this, from somewhere on Belshaw Road, year after year thinking maybe—maybe this should not be heard or witnessed again and that the waxing moon has whispered a secret to her: it is harvest time.

1.

 

Photo Credits

Cindy47452. Silos-in-Fog. flickr from Yahoo!

http://www.dailyyonder.com/files/u2/silos-in-fog.jpg  Web. 21 Sept. 2010

18 Hours in Old San Juan

18 Hours in Old San Juan                                                                             

I stood waiting to board the metal bird¾my eyes followed a flickering little moth, tan and paper-like. I watched the little creature flit to the left then right, hovering near the entrance door of the plane. Of course I didn’t think about what time it was, or the people moving slowly in front of me, or if we’d nosedive somewhere out over Crooked Island or the East Caicos, no, I was wondering if the little moth would alight on the interior of the jet before the door was sealed; he would no longer be a Miami moth, but would be forever changed and become a Puerto Rican moth. Such things do happen, of course, but I was nudged along in the human link of passengers, found my seat next to a talkative woman and bled unseen tears for the moments she described to me of her life¾her deceased daughter, the heart which was harvested from the daughter’s still “living” body, whisked off by another metal bird years back now, to take the organ to a waiting boy in Chile, the very boy all grown up that the woman was on her way to visit.

We said our good-byes after landing, and I regained the company of my escort, my husband, who until now had remained a combination of quiet or asleep as he let the woman-with-the-dead-daughter talk. No luggage to retrieve, for we were only to stay until 3 p.m. the following day. We stepped out from the world of international airports and into the island night. Cabbies easy to get, we climbed into a white van of a taxi and told the driver, “Howard Johnson on the Plaza de Armas.” Into the night he drove us, across the Laguna del Condado and into the heart of Old San Juan. The Haitian driver exclaimed along the way, “Look¾look!! He’s drunk, drunk!” as we passed police dealing with an unsteady driver outside his vehicle. No one else on the road.

Dead quiet it was¾I’d expected Rio or Mexico City, maybe a pinch of Madrid¾lights, crowds, music¾it was only a little after 10 p.m. So few on the street, groups of three or four we passed by, we wondered at the soft blackness and the narrow streets. Dropped our few things off quickly in our room, and back into another taxi to find late night food. Told the driver we wanted real food, not tourist food.

“Ok, I take you to a place, a place open 24 hours¾best mofungo, best there is” he says. This cabbie enjoys pointing out the transvestites to us, “Look¾look!!” he says, “There, there is another.”

Childish giggles erupt continuously from our cabbie as we try to peer into black corners to see his source of amusement, but we see little more than a flash of a figure under a dark doorway.  We eat, (I trusted cabbie and ordered mofungo) and we take another taxi back, same driver, less adventure, and we sleep. We sleep in a tiny room with no window in an ancient building with thick concrete walls. We hear nothing, everything is quiet and shadowy. No dreams.

Morning comes all too soon, we, in our tiny room with no window, wake to the little alarm clock’s buzz. Husband must take care of the business he traveled to this island to do. He has never been to this place, nor I; he showers, kisses my cheek and is gone. I wonder at it all¾yesterday we were in our home¾today we are in a place where we know no one, and we know nothing of the customs. Foreign, yes, we are foreign in a U.S. territory. I think about the moth and I wonder.

I have a few hours before he will return. We will have a little time to walk the city together then, we hope. I shower, take my time. I realize I’m stalling. Am I afraid? I think about how I haven’t seen daylight here yet. I gather things, a map (I try to get a feel for streets now, to avoid looking touristy) phone, room key-card. I check everything again. I peek out, look to my left towards the hotel entrance and see daylight. I have apprehension. Where am I going? I think silly things¾ what if I’m kidnapped? What if I get lost? What if terrorists attack? Are there snakes? I decide to be the curious resident of the planet I am and one, two, three¾there I am, out on the street and I’m dazzled. Over five hundred years of city swirl around me in blazing island sunlight. I see colors, trees, smell sweet things and hear soft Spanish all around. I panic now, because I have such little time. I think of the moth again and wonder if it found its way, to anywhere?

Brilliant, I see bluest sky, palms (I’ve seen palms, I live in Florida¾but these are palms) and blue cobblestoned streets. I see too much, I am overwhelmed. I walk to the end of the street, look back at the entrance to the Howard Johnson and step off the curb headed towards Calle de Sol. I take pictures of everything: ten foot wooden doorways, ancient ironwork, overhanging balconies spilling greenery over the sides, door hinges like artwork, buildings painted salmon- pink, primary yellow and azure blue. There are religious artifacts everywhere, above doorways, soldered onto wall grates and painted on tiles high above street level. I take endless pictures¾I am in love¾and have ceased to have worries as I try to take in the centuries of life here.

Husband finds me soon enough and we walk to the city’s edge and gaze at the forty-two foot walls made of sand, water, limestone and mortar. We look out over what Spaniards built and left here. We realize everything is attainable. To my left, under an ancient archway, I see a golden winged moth in the sun.

Backwords Fellow

Rented words offer no comfort¾

give them not to me unless you own them

you invest in them, you work their foundation

Give me your honesty¾what you’re unsure

of¾as winter sun slips behind rickety

wooden fences that that define my space

Cheap phrases you offer, each notoriously

bad day illustrates your catalogue of weapons

which I saw you escape to in your cowardice

I want only words bought with blood

and a symphony of sweat beading

at the furrowed brow¾the worked brow

Your artillery lies now at your feet,

your lonesome feet with toes

pointing inward¾feet backwards in shallow remorse:

em ettimid, apluc amixam aem, apluc aem, apluc aeM

(So, even in this¾my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault, let me be)

Love Your Neighbor

I watch Norma Schaeffer burn her mail from my second story window. Norma is a “retired” school teacher. She wears her hair in a gray bun with hair wisps gleefully escaping bobby pins. She walks like a stiff wind-up toy, a little to the left, then to the right. There are rumors about her; people like to tell tales. The folks we bought the house from told me she was crazy. The husband, Bill, said, “She goes out at midnight, sometimes two in the morning” he was half giddy telling me this. “Once I followed her, I couldn’t stand it anymore¾I had to know where she was going.” He enjoyed the attention of the eyes of those around us, including mine, as he talked. “She went to Burger King for Chrissake! At two o’clock in the morning!” I remembered this as I watched her creeping, now, among the bushes next to her house. Letters fell from her hand into little burning piles under the bushes. I wondered if I should call the fire department.

Months went by and Norma’s activities expanded. I would see the headlights of her old car as she’d back out of her driveway in the late hours. She wouldn’t be gone long. There was an ever-growing pile of something in Norma’s car. We shared a driveway and when I’d go out to my own car I glanced through the grime of her passenger window and sure enough, there were the piles of empty fast-food containers. She must eat the food and toss the garbage to her side. At least she didn’t litter.

One morning I thought I saw early snow out my window. There was something white all over Norma’s scraggly bushes. I found my glasses and “Oh my God” it was Norma’s “whites”¾her panties, socks, bras, dishrags¾all neatly lain out on the bush-tops to dry, in November. The items stayed there for days, till they “disappeared”.   

Late one spring night I heard “snap” and “crack” and then a “plop”. I knew it was Norma. I crept to my back window following sounds. It was coming from her garage. Norma’s garage was once a garage, but the roof had caved in, doors and windows were missing, and strange shapes took refuge within. Creepy. What could she be doing? This went on nightly for a week. I saw cardboard boxes accumulating around an old chair in front of the doorless garage. I decided to sneak over next time she backed that grubby car out of the drive. My chance came soon. With Norma gone, I walked over to her side of the drive. I walked closer, my feet edging over boundary lines. Oh my God, there, scattered all over, in every direction, piled one on top of another were shallow cardboard boxes, the kind cat food cans come in, some filled with twigs, (once sticks which Norma had neatly snapped to smaller lengths). Others held empty cat food cans. There were mountains of them. What would she possibly want with all these twig/can filled boxes? Oh Norma, I wondered, do you think about as you sit, out in the dark, alone, snapping twigs?

Norma’s cats were always slinking around. Her cats were strange and sat on her rooftop and stared at you. One of them had kittens. Soon there were little balls of fur spitting and clawing at one another in the drive. These were possessed cats; the familiars of Norma, for I was beginning to think Norma must be a conjurer, a solitary practitioner of “the craft”. Who else would live alone, with cats, active all hours of the night and set small fires against the side of the house? She must be sacrificing something; I thought maybe the burning of the mail was just to distract me. I tried to befriend the kittens when I’d see them in the drive, but when I approached they scattered to the bushes and under Norma’s back porch.

A woman who lived down the street had a yard sale and when she found out I lived next to Norma she lowered her voice and told her gossip. “Yes”, she said “she was a school teacher, a good one once, but then problems started.” She looked around at her other “customers” before going on. “She began to have periods of depression and was “away” for awhile. After she came back from the clinic the last time she wasn’t the same. She has a daughter you know¾but she never visits. And her husband, Dave, he’s the one that pops up once in awhile to mow the lawn. He moved out when he couldn’t take Norma anymore. She just got too strange. She had him gut the kitchen, which he did, but then she wouldn’t let him put anything new in. There’s no kitchen in that house you know!” she paused, as if waiting for me to gasp. I didn’t. I thanked her and walked back home. I guess that helped explain all the take-out food.

I finally spoke with Norma. She came out of nowhere one afternoon, startling me. I was putting trash in my can. “You know, that the sticker on the plate on that trailer is expired” she said, pointing her chipped yellow-nailed index finger towards the aluminum trailer we had parked at the back of our half of the drive. My scope of vision took in her peeling-paint sad house with cracked windows, her sinking garage with its mounds of empty cat food cans, the black piles of burnt mail under her bushes and the mad strings of gray which had broke free of her bun. I settled my eyes onto hers and held them to mine. I knew I was looking into the rooms of madness and said, “Hi Norma, Norma, isn’t it? I’m Pat, your neighbor.” I held out my hand, curious to reach out and touch the hand that snaps twigs, under the stars, when the rest of the world sleeps.

The Invitation of the Portico

I see you, standing tall, emasculated

by your missing pieces¾ your emptiness

Your grand façade a charade of knowledge

with its portico inviting, beguiling

lying

Yes, I see you, all beat and shoddy,

broken and eviscerated¾

your internal rooms empty

your windows like ocular

sentinels, vitreous by nature

No, I won’t enter¾ despite your invitation¾

your choice, yes, your choice hailed

the execution of viability

and thus presented the world

with a view of your vacant cella within