noisiv a no

I have visions as a 50 year old man
sitting at a small round table outside
of a cafe wathcing the breeze blow
and the leaves fly.

There is a seat next to me—
unoccupied, not because I’m lonely,
but because I have stepped
away for some alone time.

I wonder if this will be a common
occurrence: sitting alone at a coffee
table by myself or inhaling my
decisions with stuttering sighs
and exhaling the fear of not knowing
the rest of my life.

Not a book, a woman, nor a man should
be judged by its cover—
seeming—because a composed and
sound exterior can hide the shifting
landscape of the pages inside—
being.

I have read the book of every day
lately and look in the mirror to see Bill
Murray—running to the book of life to
find that it starts at chapter 26.

Yesterday’s last years gone with fresh
page rips, scarring the inseam.

The book doesn’t even have a back
flap, just “ the now” followed by by blank
pages followed by a literary cliff with
nowhere to fall.

Best not to read the words forming
every minute—ink dropping.  Best not
to birds eye if my body keeps stalling—
body keeps stalling.

“Everything is gonna work out, don’t
worry about it, it’ll be fine” is the
mysterious elixir that flinched eyes,
tense hips, and clenched feet will drink.

Where as “Silence, action, laser focus
and tunnel vision” is the gallon of
water that’s fueled by our concrete
beliefs.

Visions confuse in that you can see
what you see.  What’s there is what is
and what’s not is what isn’t.

The only thing I have to know, need
to know, is does he get up from the table.

Park Bench

On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn an elderly man sits concerned in Central Park with his eyes glued to his exposed midriff and visible chest hair.  His bottom lip hangs like Bubba Gump, but little do the passing civilians know that this was not only a genetic trait he inherited from his father, Eugene, but also as a result of years and years of dipping on chewing tobacco.  Way back when this man used to play some baseball in his heyday and later on in his career he used to manage some of the great minor league teams down the east coast.  He had many a nickname, a different one on every team.  During the start of his journey in the league as a steely second baseman they called him “Trumpet” because they wondered if his lips could ever fit tightly enough to be able to play one.  In the summer of his career his club called him “Dandy” cause before and after every game he was dressed to the nines; three piece suits with shiny new penny loafers that never seemed to lose their luster.  It might have helped that his name was Sandy, too.  In the final couple of years, when the injuries that seemed to creep up on all the greats had their way with him, they called him “Stubs” because the wear and tear of almost twenty years playing professionally had reduced his legs to atrophic stumps; he was barely mobile and it hurt to run, let alone slide.  Sandy retired as one of the best hitters of all time and earned the respect of all of his teammates and every fan that was lucky enough to see him play.  

Unfortunately, his home life didn’t mirror the incredible things he was able to accomplish on the field.  His life was riddled in sadness.  When he was just 14 years old he lost both of his parents to a horrific car accident.  At the time it had occurred, Sandy was at a friends house practicing his swing.  When he was notified of the news it didn’t seem to make sense.  It still never made sense and for fear of further trauma he elected not to go to the mortuary to say his goodbyes.  The closed casket funeral, despite being full with family friends, colleagues, and neighbors didn’t add the closure that Sandy hoped to receive.  There was something about not being there with them or seeing what had happened that led him to believe that nothing really had happened, or if it did, it would never sink in.  He went to live with grandparents in a far away suburb, but they were getting old, so he often feared at some point he would lose them, too.  When he was 27, in the middle of his prime, when he was putting up some of the biggest numbers the game had ever seen, he met a lady by the name of Nancy, who everyone called “Pants,” and they married after only a couple months of dating.  Their marriage was relatively private, with only about twenty invitees in total, including Sandy’s grandparents who, at that point, were in their mid 90’s.  Sandy was so happy that they were alive and healthy to see him wed.  A year later, his grandparents passed away together in their sleep and in turn left Sandy with no remaining family members of his own.  To make matters worse, Nancy had left him pregnant with their baby, without a note or a word.  He woke up one Saturday morning to find that the drawers were cleared, the closets were half empty, and the brand new toys he had bought for his soon to be child were gone.  He walked around the house, assessed the situation, found an empty seat in the living room and sat down in it.  His feet were cold on the wooden floor.  His deep breaths in and out came and went without so much as a peep.  He was just alone with his stares in his shrunken undershirt that showed the hint of a fattening stomach and his hairy legs that may or may not have looked a little smaller.  

Ten years later after retiring, a strapping, strutting young man was now a limping old-timer and unlike his predecessors he would not take a break from the game that he loved; he went right on to managing.  The attention of playing in a big city never really mattered to Sandy and neither did the pressure that came with the higher expectation to win, but he was never shy to say that he liked the quiet of the smaller cities that fostered the majority of the minor league ball clubs.  To him, the balance of helping a team full of players that would one day play under the bright lights and the calm of ending every night by himself—alone in his tiny home, provided the tranquility of the peace he always loved.  He started way off in the northeast corner of the country and after finding success in each town, winning minor league championships and sending many of his players to the pros, he would move his way on down.  Despite keeping to himself, the towns welcomed him with open arms.  The coffee shops where he became a regular, the quiet little diners that knew the only thing he would ever ordered, and the citizens of the parks that he used to sit at for hours in the day during the offseason.  To a stranger you might think he was grumpy all the time and to the rare person in those towns that might not have known who he was, he or she might flinch in disgust when he would spit some of the chewing tobacco into the brass bottle he always carried.  It didn’t matter, though.  It only took a second for his quiet and deceptively charming personality to endear you to him.  

The game of baseball had always been Sandy’s sanctuary.  The spirit inside the game that lived inside of him never waned and in some ways he always took that for granted, but after years and years of success and watching his young players grow into future all stars and watching up and coming teams that he raised becoming powerhouses, his desire to manage and be around the game he loved began to fade.  All these young boys around him that he had nurtured and raised that were blossoming into grown men started to awaken a deep longing that he had to know the son or daughter he had never known and that had grown up without him.  It was the candle in him that ignited the day his wife told him the news and despite everything that had happened since then, all of the wind storms inside him that blew and blew, the candle continued to glimmer.  One season, after an underwhelming performance in the playoffs, he left quietly into the night after packing his things, and returned to the city that he was raised in by his parents, the city that he played for the majority of his career, and the city that he wished to settle down in.  The day after he arrived he went to go see the doctor that used to work on him in his last years as a player.  It had been so long since he had been in for a check-up.  He didn’t see any reason to believe that he wasn’t healthy.  There was the wear and tear from the game, but that was natural.  After going in for a routine physical, the doctor—a long time friend, told Sandy that he would like to go a step further and reschedule a visit to do some additional tests.  He returned the next day, took the tests, and later in the week when he saw his friend again, the doctor told him some disheartening news:  He had cancer in the mouth.  There was no change of expression on Sandy’s face.  A grumble or two.  He asked, “How long?”  The doctor replied, “It’s hard to say.  A year maybe?  Maybe less.  And it could always be more.”  “That it?” Sandy said, and then left the office without saying another word.  

On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn, Sandy settled in and sat at his favorite place in Central Park.  He used to love to watch the people go by, the bikers zooming around the bend, the runners chasing another mile, and the families—generations young and old, walking around happily in bliss.  Sandy looked up to the sky to see an endless blue that felt as rich and boundless as the career he played.  He nestled into his seat to get comfortable, to give his legs a rest, and to take the deep, long, relaxing breaths he cherished.  After breathing himself into a deep trance, his eyes latched on to his exposed midriff that showed in the open space made by the constantly shrinking undershirt.  A man and a woman sat down on the bench next to him talking baseball.  Sandy’s ears perked up a little.  

“They say the team’s going to retire his number as well,” the lady started.  “It feels rather fitting after everything he did for the organization”  

“I’m going to have to try and make it.  I remember watching him long ago and absolutely marveling at the things he could do.  Those homeruns?  The plays in center field?” the man followed.  “The Times has written a special on him every day this week.  I read the other day he grew up not knowing his real father.  Apparently the mother left and never told him.”            

“Imagine that,” the lady said.  “How awful.  You wonder if the father ever wanted to find his son, if he’s still alive, anyway.”

After the normal late afternoon chit-chat the man and woman took off for a reservation dinner.  

Meanwhile, Sandy’s eyes welled up with soft, wet tears.  And there they went, streaming down his face one by one, catching his lip, and then falling peacefully to the ground.  The candle inside flickered for a moment.  Flickered and flickered by a harsh internal wind until the flame grew bigger and bigger and bigger…

The Anywhere Express

Despite planning to do several things this Sunday, a day he had looked forward to since the week had started, the morning sun failing to blare through his window like it normally did showed him that the elements had other plans.  He had always kept his curtain open; for one, he liked being able to put the AC on at night (when the curtain was down it became an obstacle for the air to move through) and two, he loved the feeling of going to bed whenever he was able and wake up whenever nature desired him to.  It wasn’t a question of interrupting internal customs, but rather a feeling of waking up when the world saw fit.  He examined his phone—a habitual first action that he was always ashamed of performing—and saw that it was one in the afternoon.  The beginning of his day, which was supposed to be filled with a detox run around the neighborhood, a breakfast consisting of an egg white platter and an exotic fruit bowl was now ruined and his hope of making it to midtown in time for Central Park’s inaugural park wide mediation was dashed.  Normally he would take a shower to clear his mind, but he could hear down the hall that his roommate was already occupying the space.  Sometimes he thought of what factors there were in a person’s life that determined the songs they would sing in the shower.  Everyone knew that your voice sounded the best when the water was running and the sound reverberated off the walls like you were actually someone that could produce that great of noise.  A select few weren’t so lucky, but again, it had to be this person’s select shower playlist.  Dixie Chicks?  Kenny Chesney?  Toby Keith?  Slayer?  Megadeath?  Korn?!  Country music was one thing.  Three country artists in a row was another.  But the transition from country to heavy metal?!  That was like taking everything that was wrong in the world and mashing it together to create one big shit sandwich.  Some southern twangs were sexy—this one wasn’t.  Some people screaming simply hurt the ears—not destroy the eardrums all together.  

OK.  So this house is telling me something.  This day is telling me something.  I need to get out of here, he thought.  Let’s see what the outside world has in store for me.  After grabbing some sunflower seeds and a pack of lemons, he was on his way out the door.  The elevator read “Out of Service—Check back next year” and the man blinked to get the crust out of his eyes, which had to have been the obstruction causing him not read the sign correctly.  Except he looked at the sign again after blinking and saw that it now read “This used to be elevator—It’s 2017—Just Fucking Walk.”  Who the hell did this super think he was?  He would bet his life that he had taken the elevator just last night, when he came home drunk from a party in Canarsie.”  Now that he noticed it, the sign didn’t look like it was plastered on any type of elevator.  It was just white walls.  He couldn’t possibly have been the only one who was disappointed to find out his apartment no longer offered the services of an elevator.  After all, he knew there were a lot of old folks that lived on some of the upper levels.  How were they supposed to go up and down?  Even he needed the elevator for going down the stairs.  He had a couple of knee surgeries a few years ago; walking down was still a struggle.  He slowly descended the first flight to see that there was another sign on the 5th floor, “Using your body sets you free.”  The next floor—“I just spoke to the inventor of the elevator and told him he was the one to blame for obesity.”  The third floor—“I did you a favor—now you don’t need to be scared of dying in an elevator.”  The second—“You can practically see the floor from here.”  And the ground floor read, “If you can struggle to pay my rent you can struggle to climb those steps.”  Jesus Christ, this landlord sounded like a Nazi.  He made a mental note to himself to look at new places somewhere else when he returned later in the day.  His legs were already feeling taxed after doing the dirty work of walking down so many floors.  He even thought he might have felt himself limping.

When he exited his complex he was surprised to find that there were no cars on the street and it was clear he wasn’t the only person who noticed.  “FUCK!” he said.  Looking down the block he could see that there were herds of families also standing like he was with a similar screwed up face at the total absence of street vehicles.  Someone shouted, “CONO!”  Someone else shouted, “PUTAIN!”  An elderly woman yelled, “CAZZO!”  A baby screamed “BEHEN CHOD!”  He wondered if everyone else went through the same process as he did.  Finding out their elevators didn’t work, having to walk down all the steps, only to find out there next dependable means of transportation was missing as well.  The street certainly looked different.  It was certainly more open and several kids were playing in the street, getting wet to the unlocked fire hydrants on one end and playing a mean game of stickball on the other.  Now that he took the time to fully look, there wasn’t a car in sight.  There wasn’t a stoplight on his corner like there once was and there weren’t any cars as far as his eyes could see.  The streets, which used to be filled with the loud shrill honk of horns was a landscape of children laughing, crying, and shouting.  You know…it wasn’t so bad.  

A strange day, he thought.  The manner in which he woke up, the elevator, the complete elimination of automobiles; a strange day, indeed.  On his way to the subway he saw that the main street corner had also changed entirely.  For one, it was clear that cars were no longer in the picture.  This main street, “St. Nicholas” looked like a human metropolis.  Yesterday there were stands solely on the side of the street, but now his neighborhood looked like a Moroccan Medina, a huge bazaar of fruit stands, clothing vendors, furniture artisans, and perfume confectioners.  At this point he wondered if there was even a subway at all.  He slipped and slid, ducked and dodged the newfound human traffic that was on par with the automobile traffic he once knew.  He breathed a great sigh of relief when, after a couple of blocks. he discovered that there was still the subway station that there was before…except, to his dismay, the station was closed because 1 trains weren’t running between 242nd St. and 137th.  He should have known.  Well, at least there was an A train nearby.  On the corner of 181 and Ft. Washington, he entered the station in the hope of finally getting his day started and checking off a couple of the things he had on his list.  Upon first glance, he didn’t notice anything different about the station.  Out of nowhere he was bumped from behind by a couple of masked hooligans, who jumped over the turnstiles, while being pursued by a couple of cops who had guns in their left hands, simultaneously clutching a couple glazed Dunkin Donuts in their right, and wearing what appeared to be pig noses.  Wait.  Wait, what?  They weren’t wearing pig noses.  They had pig noses.  And pig tails!  Not the hair style, either.  Literally, each one of them, had pig tails.  The only reason he was around long enough to notice was right after the masked men fled the scene, the cops found that they weren’t athletic enough to jump over the turnstiles.  Oh, they tried, but after fifteen seconds, they quit and buckled over, exhausted.  He stared at the two cops, or pigs, or whatever they were, and slowly swiped his subway card to get through to the other side, all the while staring at the cops with an incredulous look like, “You guys can’t even carry a train pass?” before braking their gaze and heading to the downtown side below.  Steps.  Steps had indeed replaced the famously tall escalators that used to stand where he stood.  He thought of reporting his landlord and super to the authorities.  This was now a public matter and his knees ached to think of all the steps below.  But he managed.  

The A train came within minutes.  If there was any doubt that something in the world was terribly wrong, the man now had all the evidence he needed.  He watched the cars pass by.  Whoosh.  Whoosh.  Whoosh.  There was no one in the train to be seen.  He couldn’t help, but shake his head.  The doors opened, he hesitated, and then entered and was welcomed with the familiar breeze of a blue line car.  He sat down.  The seat was cold to the touch.  

“The next stop on this train will be—.”

An arm stopped the doors from closing just in time to let a woman with frizzy brown hair, caramel skin, bright green eyes, a nose ring, a crop top, navy blue capris, and converse sneakers in the train.  She stopped to sit right across from him.  

“The next stop on this train will be…”

He said, “Where do you wanna go?”

and she replied, “After what I’ve seen the past 30 minutes…anywhere.”

“Thank you for boarding the Anywhere Express.  The next stop on this train will be Anywhere.”

He looked at her and she looked at him.

Please stand clear of the closing doors.

Mythology

The word is that a New York basketball legend showed up at the courts of Rucker Park last night.  He started his career with the Knicks, grew as a player during his time there, grew as a man, witnessed many coaching changes, and finally left on his own accord to avoid the infectious dysfunction that had proliferated throughout the organization.  The blue, white, and orange suited this man; after all, he made the colors nationally known when he led his team to a top 25 ranking in high school.  It’s funny, his unnaturally natural gifts and athleticism brought about many investigations during his playing career.  One time he jumped over three men—literally, jumped over three defenders—to throw down a vicious dunk and the referees, in accordance with the league, stopped play, sent three undercover surgeons to the floor to operate on the player because they thought they might find springs in his calves.  The surgery was performed in the locker room as the game continued on and when the player returned he dunked on the whole team this time to make a statement that the league couldn’t do a damn thing to take away his gifts.  This man had created his own legend.  There was a wonderful soul food special on the menu of Amy Ruth’s and there was a basketball court named after him in his hometown.  Shit, people even started training their kids to focus on plyometrics, ankle strength, calf strength, foot speed, and ligament mobility.  With the pandemonium surrounding the player at an all time high, he just sat back in his comfy chair and laughed to himself.  If only they knew the formula.  All it was was a little God-given talent and the ingredient that alluded most people’s imagination…happy thoughts.  If only people knew that right before he went up to go for a tip-jam he thought of the day his first child was born, then maybe they’d understand.  It wasn’t so much the body he was given, but the memories he was blessed with.  Getting to the NCAA tournament.  Making the NBA Finals.  Winning a Slam-Dunk contest.  Buying his mother a house.  Being inducted into his college team’s hall of fame.  Having his number retired at his high school.  There was no shortage of happy thoughts.  If only the cronies of the league and the unimaginative foaming-at-the-mouth knew that it was a mentality he developed that allowed him to play the way he played.  They could look all they wanted and perform whatever surgery imaginable.  The happy thoughts weren’t going anywhere.

…

Four hours.  That’s how many hours before the game that “Smooth” was on the court practicing his shot.  The same routine every day.  Same form.  Same follow through.  Same swish of the nylon from the same rotation on the ball.  No team staff was allowed to watch at first, but over the years the “fortunates” got luckier and soon there were mini crowds that formed to take in the sweetest stroke of all time shooting a basketball.  Somehow he didn’t get tired and never experienced fatigue.  He was taught as a young boy that shooting, an action that—to the naked eye, was a motion dominated by the arms, was also just as linked to the legs and the height and balance one could maintain from a jump.  People failed to realize that mastering the stroke was only half the battle; it was the strong jump from the legs that gave him the momentum upwards and allowed him to propel the shot forward.  It was the jump that, believe it or not, prevented his arms from getting heavy and wearing down.  From time to time he would be asked an innocent question during his annual interview with Sports Illustrated for Kids.  “If you have the perfect shot and impeccable form, why doesn’t your shot go in all the time?  Why do you still miss?”  “Smooth” had to laugh at the question one time.  When he was younger he had asked his dad, a military man who preached discipline through and through, the same thing to which he replied, “Nobody’s perfect.”  The day after the interview “Smooth” was nearing the end of the greatest game on record shooting a perfect 32 for 32 from the field (76 points) and was 22 for 22 from the free throw line.  With his team down 119-119, all he needed was to make one to win the game and two to reach 100 points.  He went through his free throw routine and calmly swished the first shot.  His team now had the lead and was set to win because there was only .4 seconds left on the shot clock, not long enough for the opposing team to win save a long distance heave.  He went through his motion again and perfectly threw up his second free throw.

After the game, “Smooth” was asked about his once-in-a-lifetime performance.  “‘Smooth’, how were you able to lock in and help this team get a much needed win?”  He responded, “I felt like I needed to come out and do something special, tonight.  We hadn’t won as many games in the past couple weeks as we should have and I knew against a team like this I was going to need to bring my best.”  Then the same kid from SI for Kids, who somehow got into the grown up post-game conference, asked “Smooth”, “You had 98 points before those last two free throws and you had an opportunity to win the game and score 100.  How did it feel when you missed that second free throw.”

“Smooth” smiled and answered back…”Nobody’s perfect.”

…

There was something about the way this young man moved that could simultaneously draw millions of people to him and incite the most hateful remarks from millions of others.  I mean, this guy was a scale that never stayed.  Always swaying.  Always attempting to find a balance, but deep down he knew no matter how hard he tried, he probably never would be able to find it.  Where he grew up was a place that animals had trouble surviving.  Tainted water.  Rundown ghettos.  Homes without families.  Kids without mothers and fathers.  It was the country, but it was a jungle.  In a dog-eat-dog world a man finds himself becoming a dog.  It becomes his nature, his way of being, his motive, and his livelihood.  At the beginning he was stuck towards the bottom of the food chain.  He was born small and grew slowly and the other dogs in the jungle picked on him, tried to bite him, eat him, and before long…kill him.  Too much time hadn’t passed before he started to grow a little bit, started to fill out, and fit into his shoes.  Teeth sharpening.  Fists clenched.  Fight never flight.  When the man made it to the court for the first time he took his surroundings with him.  You gonna try and guard me?  I’m gonna fuck you up.  You gonna try and get past me?  I’m gonna lock you the fuck down.  You gonna try and block me?  Push me?  Trash talk me?  Get in my head?  Well you better pray that I don’t do all that shit first.  This man devastated the other teams and destroyed the competition.  He got in trouble.  When it came time to sit down as the draft neared and talk to NBA executives and owners about his behavior and how it wouldn’t be accepted in the league, he acknowledged it, played nice, and shrugged it off in his head.  “Fuck that.  I’m coming for the best.”

During his first game, fresh off his rookie contract and the #1 pick signing bonus, he showed up with a mink coat, briefs, an $100,000 dollar chain, and Gucci slippers.  The NBA was incensed.  All of the young fans at home were in love.  Mothers tried turning their sons TV’s off to protect them.  Fathers turned it right back on.  

The man played his first game against the defending NBA champs, who had arguably the greatest player of all time on their team.  On the first play of the game, “The Greatest” went up for a layup with his elbows out and knocked the young man square in the mouth.  Blood dropped to the hardwood like drops from the young man’s faulty faucet.  He took his hand to check on the blood, felt the liquid around his teeth, went to the scorers table and spit the blood out of his mouth, with his eyes locked in, his head sweating, nose dripping, and his teeth blaring.  Even “The Greatest” stopped to freeze when he met the young man’s gaze.  The whistle blew.

And a star was born.

The warehouse / The empty space

I’d like to own a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.  A huge property in some random and remote location that doesn’t receive too much attention, but still attracts a following.  In the movie “Field of Dreams,” there is a moment at the end where you see this huge line of cars trying to come to Iowa to watch the all time greats play.  That baseball field was beautiful in the movie.  I don’t want this warehouse to be externally beautiful.  I want it to be a huge steel mass that the majority of people might walk by, comment on its sheer size, and carry on if not to shrug their shoulders in passing in response to its ugly exterior.  I’m thinking if you took something the size of Powell’s book shop in Portland and put it in the boonies, it would be similar to this warehouse.  

In the summer, scores of basketball players would gather to come play in 1 on 1, 3 on 3, and 5 on 5 tournaments.  It would be big enough inside to host about 10-15 full size NBA basketball courts and there would be stands in the middle of all of them, so word of mouth spectators could come visit if they pleased.  Some of the runs would be competitive and others would be professional, but most of all it would be a place for anybody to get better if they wanted to.  A place where ex-NBA’ers could get back in shape, dropouts could attempt to resurrect their career, hopefuls could test their levels against elite competition and current superstars could come to take a break from Summer Pro-Am’s to just get a full taste and accurate preview of what the upcoming season might look like.  It would be a far cry from some good pickup with a couple of All-Stars at UCLA; it would be a place where recent retirees could show the new school cats what old-school basketball was like.  The type that love to say “No blood, no foul.”  And no refs either.  The bullshit wouldn’t be allowed, but neither would the bullying.  A slap on the wrist would be played through, but a cry-baby wouldn’t be tolerated, either.  Some of the technicians are working on a specific court that brings with it a special surprise.  It’s called “Prime Court.”  When you step on the court you immediately become the prime version of yourself.  We’ve kept it on the hush because we know what would happen if the media got word, but I’m obviously excited that we’ll be able to end a lot of those ridiculous debates about who would win between some of the all time greats.  Lebron vs. Kobe.  Kobe vs. Mike.  Mike vs. Lebron.  Warriors vs Bulls.  “Prime Court” has a lot of potential.  

Then in one of the far corners on the other side, secluded from a lot of the madness, I have a quiet space called the “The Confessional.”  In short, it’s a place for all of those responsible for watering down baseball, particularly the alleged steroid abusers to come clean.  Maybe Barry Bonds would show up.  Maybe Rafael Palmeiro would arrive crying.  Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire are already regulars.  Brady Anderson has showed up as has Manny Ramirez.  There are a couple that I will not mention.  It’s not meant to be an overbearing environment.  It’s meant to be a sanctuary.  You see, in the warehouse there is 100 percent anonymity.  Clandestine media invaders, thinking their cover was safe, would find that it would be blown on arrival.  Try to attempt a secretive photo and the device would be scrambled forever.  Try to jot down a spare word that could potentially become a story and the words would appear as gibberish.  It wouldn’t take long for any trespasser to realize that the special aura of the warehouse could not and would not be tainted.        

In many ways, the warehouse is full of magic.  Not magic like “Harry Potter” per se, although there are “Harry Potter” type elements featured there.  For one, the warehouse could be compared to “the room of requirement,” in the sense that it is a huge space that no-one really takes notice of and not everyone can access.  In one section of the warehouse there is a space called “Conspiracy Theory,” in which the visitors can go and sit for hours to read documents about whatever moment in history they like and watch as much film as they want from alternate perspectives.  The technicians at the warehouse have a good relationship with organ donors, so if someone were to say, “I’d like to figure out more about the Kennedy assassination” or “I’d like to learn more about the 2000 election” or “Is there a cure for AIDS or Cancer?” or “Are there aliens living on earth?” or “Is the Illuminati a real thing”, you’d have the opportunity to look through the eyes of people involved with these topics (historians, investigators, witnesses) to see for yourself.  Think “the Pensieve” in the HP books, but your body remaining physically in one place instead of being transported to another time.  

The warehouse has been earning quite the reputation lately of being a great center and hotspot for awesome collaborations.  There is a state-of-the-art arts center called “the Ladder”, in which virtuosos and creatives from all over the artistic stratosphere come together to sit, talk, and experiment with one another.  I remember when I’d hear cool things about famous people getting together in Hollywood.  Kanye West and Spike Jonze.  Jimmy Iovine and everybody.  I overheard someone saying that Jay-Z, Muhammad Yunus, Al Franken, and Zuckerberg were discussing something the other day in “the Ladder.”  That same person told me that Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, Angela Davis, Oprah Winfrey, and Joan Baez had been talking all week in the board room.  That gave me chills.  There seems to be nothing that surprises me anymore.  I saw J.K. Rowling speaking with Beyonce the other day.  It took a lot of effort not to flip out.  Then I saw Kevin Durant talking to Jeff Bezos and I ached to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.  The Sonic fan in me hoped for the best.

During the school year, the warehouse has one part of the building that serves as a sort of alternative school/juvenile detention center/psych ward/rehabilitation center.  Kanye sometimes voluntarily checks in to the psych ward, but the presence of someone so well known is very rare.  He also voluntarily speaks to the students at the alternative school and sometime involuntarily ends up at the detention center.  All tasteless jokes aside, he is actively involved with the board of directors running the facility and makes annual contributions and through his support, he has brought other inspiring and influential people to come and speak to the students and at-risk youth.  Every month there are workshops conducted by the fantastic team that runs all of the centers.  It is intense, there is lots of resistance, but ultimately all of the students and patients come out of it feeling more confident and prepared to make the next step.  Many of the aforementioned collaborators have instituted a mentoring program in which they form a special relationship with a student and agree to be there sponsor and mentor to help them get out of their funk and make it to the other side.  Tarantino was here last month and took a keen interest in a creative young student, who had a knack for writing screenplays.  They hit it off and the rumor is Tarantino is using some of the kid’s content in his next movie.  Or this other young girl who was kicked out of school because she had a “writing problem.”  Not that she didn’t write enough, but that she wrote too much; she wouldn’t do anything else in any other subject but write.  Zadie Smith heard about her after a conference at “the Ladder” and agreed to help out the girl turn this “problem” into writing books.  

Anything seems possible here.  Aside from the flagrant foul in a old-timers vs. new timers hoop game, the bad energy is at a minimum.  Deep breaths are taken here.  You might here Kanye yell, “Can we all just take like 10 deep breaths real quick?!” and not surprisingly, you can feel the collective sigh that everyone in the building agrees to take.  People are valued for who they are and the sky really is the limit for anybody and everybody.  There is such little judgment and when there is, it’s vocalized and talked out.  Everyone in the building has been through something, knows that it takes a lot to deal with it, and that they are surrounded by people that care, want to help, and keep them safe.  That’s the underlying theme at “the warehouse.”  It’s a big space, but it feels small.  It’s intimate and the technicians are constantly reworking and bettering the atmosphere.  There are white boards FILLED with new additions, acquisitions, and planning for the future.  I can’t wait to see what they come up with.

Harlem River

The young man woke up without feeling.  That is to say he woke up not knowing how to feel.  He didn’t feel tired, didn’t feel refreshed, didn’t feel well rested, and didn’t feel like he could even process having just woken up.  Something was off about this morning.  The sun was out, but he couldn’t put words to the bright sphere in the distance that had opened his eyes moments ago.  There were white things littered in the other blue thing that he strangely recollected, but after a couple moments of staring dumbfounded out of what he could have sworn was called a window, he merely shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his way out of his bedroom door.  The hallways that he walked through every day made him feel claustrophobic.  He had a tendency to lean as he walked, so there were times where his head scratched the surface of the wall, leading his imbalanced ways to have damaging consequences.  It wasn’t but a couple of paces before his head started drooping over and scraping the white plaster.  This continued until he made it to the living room, a mess of a space where every piece of furniture had been replaced with feathers.  There would be nowhere to sit anymore, nowhere to watch TV, nowhere for guests to sleep.  There were just feathers.  The man heard a growl coming from somewhere and knowing that there was no cat or dog living in the house he assumed it was coming from his stomach.  In the past, he treated these growls with trips to the bathroom in an attempt to “get the growl out”, but to no avail.  The growl usually worsened and frequently led to hour long stares in the mirror to see his skin begin to yellow.  Jaundice came and went with the little man.  It would arrive fairly quickly and when the man’s concentration snapped he would retreat back to the bedroom and sleep for 120 hours straight, go back to the mirror and see that the jaundice had disappeared.  On other days when the growls alluded him, he’d head towards the refrigerator and open it up to see what new things it might hold.  Somehow it was always fully stocked.  He didn’t know how, why, or who was providing the products inside, but whoever it was they certainly had an eclectic taste.  Inside the fridge there were three shelves and two on the side for condiments.  The top shelf was usually filled with fresh food; frog legs, duck feet, horse hooves, and rabbit intestines.  The young man usually looked there first.  The second shelf had the slightly less appetizing; rat tails, roach antennas, and pigeon beaks.  And the dreaded third shelf, the bottom of the bottom; white bread, cheddar cheese, and ham.  The man always thought the condiments were what made everything edible.  Barbecue sauce, fish sauce, sriracha, and tomato sauce.  Those were the go-tos.  If he was in a basic mood he’d resort to peanut butter, jelly, or mayonnaise.  Today, he looked in the fridge and felt nothing.  Despite being filled to the brim, nothing looked appetizing, so he casually shut the refrigerator door and processed what to do next.  The living room window was open.  About half way.  He always wondered what it would feel like.  The young man started to move a couple steps toward the window, picked up the pace, and jumped through it at full force.  

Half expecting a fire escape below him and half expecting to be stopped at impact, the young man was fully relieved when he saw that nothing would be stopping him below.  He resided on the sixth floor, so there was quite a ways to fall, but he landed with a bone-cracking thud after a couple seconds.  If he had another opportunity to try he would have done a cannonball.  It took the man a second to move.  Despite not having any feeling he didn’t have the option to rise suddenly to his feet due to a cracked tailbone, impaled shoulder blade, and split cranium.  It took him about ten minutes to move one of his toes a la Beatrix Kiddo.  He regained control of his feet soon after and with a busted right arm braced himself to a standing position.  There was a small crowd that had gathered around him with their mouths agape, but that’s about all they had on their faces.  They had X’s for eyes, no hair, no ears and swayed like their bodies would drift away from a small breeze.  Cars stuttered by.  The young man, in an attempt to dodge his newfound attention, limped slowly into the street where he was smacked immediately by Volkswagen Beetle.  The crowd that had gathered after he fell out of his apartment took turns punching each other and shouting, “Slug Bug Yellow!  Slug Bug Yellow!”  The young man once again opened his eyes moments after his collision with the Slug Bug and stared above at the blue thing he noticed from his bedroom window.  Breathing took a little more effort.  There wasn’t too much air to go around it seemed like.  His torso had almost been completely severed and his spine was now protruding from his back.  No matter, though.  As if he was determined to continue moving forward, the young man once again made it to his feet, his sway and lean now at close to a 20 degree angle.  Sweat beads formed on his brow and turned a salty red mixed from all the blood that had poured through his body in the past fifteen minutes.  His scraped head.  His torso.  His entire body was one big shamble.  He attempted to straighten up and heard a loud crack and faltered back down in his new stance.  If he could feel anything maybe he’d feel invincible.  His body wouldn’t allow him to stay down, his brain led the way with a fierce determination, and no matter how much he bled it seemed like there was always enough blood to go around.

The young man didn’t know where he wanted to go.  He found himself walking aimlessly, something else inside of him leading the way.  Despite attracting more faceless bystanders during his walk, he persisted forward reaching the Washington Bridge after about 45 minutes.  He could just barely see over the edge of the walkway, but a large mass of water was in plain view.  On the top of the green water he could make out the words “Harlem River,” so he figured that’s what the stuff below him must be.  He always wanted to jump.  Always wanted to let the water take him wherever it wanted to go.  Two women to his left—whom he had noticed had all of their facial features, but no abdomen, just heads and lower body—sensed that he wanted to be lifted to the ledge, so with their teeth they picked him up from the back of his shirt like lions do their cubs and helped him get to the top.  Due to his odd angle, the man barely had time to revel in his next jump because the momentum of his lean carried him forward, off from the bridge and into a second free-fall into the “Harlem River.”  While his lean didn’t allow him to anticipate the jump, it did make up for it because it gave him a natural spin.  The man found himself somersaulting forward and forward and spinning like an olympic diver, so much so that even though he belly flopped, he still would have been given a 8.2 for setting the world record in flips before a “dive.”  

Now, after all this time, the young man finally felt something.  The force of the fall and the impact with the water resulted in a straightened back and a revived consciousness.  However, there was a trade-off.  Even though he had regained sensations in his body, he was now fully paralyzed.  The water flipped him on his back and the young man started his drift south down the river.  The sky, (that’s what it was called!) above him clear as day.  The boats floating alongside him.  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  Frown or smile.  

The two woman at the top of the bridge followed the man with their eyes until he disappeared from view.  

descent

Whether or not it gets
recognized beyond the circles
we’ve created
the fact that you’ve drawn
a line in the sand
willingly or unwillingly
consciously or unconsciously
is a lesson I’ve learned
a lesson I’ve valued
because it could have
stayed stagnant
and festered
been passed down along the line
and infiltrated the soil
poisoned the roots
and grown into a tree
incapable
of forming branches

a perpetual state of August
and December
the spring of my life
was a product of your late summer
and early fall
heat strokes, lighting storms
purple rain
Seattle weather
hot and cold
clear then murky
then cold and hot
again

it’s been different lately
less explosive, I think
trigger finger not as itchy
dare I say more patient?
or dare I say
maturity lasts a lifetime?

I know
all too well
the brewing hurricanes, tornadoes, and monsoons
within me
passed down to me
created by me
but all to well do I know
your history
and how you’ve shown me
the future can be righted
predictions can be avoided
and in this instance
we have the control
the opportunity
the decision

to change
to evolve
into the bigger man

watts and volts

Creatively speaking
I’m suffering
from brain freezes and Jenga moves
take the blocks from the bottom
to rebuild the top
only to find out later
that I’m weakening
the foundation

My siamese twin, Instability
will not lead me to the promised land
and neither will
my conscience, Inconsistency

What is progress
but hair length and growth spurts
but hair loss and hunching over
but lying down

What is darkness
but beginning the end
and ending the beginning

If you suffer from fear of heights
do you cure it if you jump
or
can midway through falling
you suspend the outcome
rebound against
gravity
and force yourself up

His heart rate’s been
flatlining

so

despite his good health
the doctors have ordered:
electrical shock
defibrillator downers

CLEAR

Player's Tribune - If I wasn't trying to fight you, I wasn’t having any fun

Maybe it’s because I grew up watching Gary Payton jaw back and forth with Michael Jordan in the NBA finals or go full motor mouth every time he played Karl Malone or any other superstar.  Maybe it was the competitive fire that my father instilled in me from day one, not to back down, to stand my ground, and push back full force.  Maybe it was because I was smaller than everyone else from the moment I started playing and I always had that chip on my shoulder and the desire to not let someone else bully me, walk all over me, and punk me like I wasn’t going to fight back.  I’m sure it was a garden-variety mixture of all of the above.  The fact of the matter is; if we’ve played competitively against one another the odds are I’ve probably tried to fight you at least once.  

I’ve been playing basketball for a long time now.  I can’t remember exactly how long, but it’s been a while.  A community center team here, another rec team there.  The game was so much fun and my teammates and I all enjoyed playing with one another.  (Maybe I shouldn’t speak for all of them).  In elementary school, if you weren’t playing kickball or dodgeball outside on the upper platform of BF Day, then the odds are you were playing basketball on one of the two courts beneath.  This is where the fire began to ignite.  My guy Alexey, who I still see every now and then in Seattle, could attest that as we got older the games on those courts got more and more competitive.  I mean there were little kids crying, elbows being thrown, you name it.  The “Bad Boys” Piston squads would have been proud of us.  One of my best friends at the time, Joel, always used to play with one of our other best friends, Nathan.  When we all played together on the same team we were the squad.  I don’t know what happened one day, but Joel and I were playing against each other and the game got pretty chippy.  The tea kettle was whistling.  One thing led to another, a hard foul and then an accidental trip, and next thing you know a battle ensued.  He threw the ball at me, I walked over to this little hill area and popped him in the back of the head and that was that.  Ping.  Ping.  Done.  Just another case of good old tempers flaring.

In middle school, the height difference between me and the eighth graders was glaring and this also translated to the basketball court.  This didn’t change in seventh grade and it didn’t change in eighth either despite my new standing as a middle school upperclassman.  The style of play evolved around me and I knew that if I was going to succeed at the game I was gonna need to be fearless.  I was going to need to get under people’s skin.  I needed to create advantages for myself.  In eighth grade, the only year I made varsity at Hamilton, I was one of fifteen on a NBA sized team.  My opportunities were few and far between, but I tried to take advantage of every moment I was granted.  My game revolved around the little things; picking up people full court (or trying to), tugging on other people’s jerseys, hitting a random backboard three every once in a while, and being a dependable player to my coaches.  Not playing very often probably had an effect on me, too.  It made me more angry.  Made me more frustrated.  And it only increased my desire to prove people wrong.

In high school, everything that I struggled with was maximized.  Now I was playing against elite competition and against some players that would not only play D1 in college, but one or two would even go on to play in the NBA.  My role on my high school team wasn’t noteworthy by any means.  However, this began an era in which I started to lash out at opposing players and my friends, as well.  There was one summer league game in high school and we were playing at one of the upper gyms at Hec Edmunson Pavilion (now known as Alaska Airlines Arena), the home of the Washington Huskies.  UW served as a sanctuary to me during my youth because every summer I would go to the team’s basketball camps, so much so that I became a regular.  During this game in particular, we were playing Bellevue and the gym was packed with other teams, parents, other spectators, and a few members of the UW staff (I don’t think Coach Romar was there at that moment, but he was around).  By the middle of the game we were getting our asses kicked and—like any good Bellevue team—they had no intention of taking their foot off the gas.  Finally the game started to get out of hand, coaches talking back and forth to each other, players jawing, shit talking, the usual, but nothing could take my attention away from the fact that they were up by 40 and still fast breaking.  Still leaking out and getting easy layups.  That didn’t sit too well with me.  On the next play we missed and a Bellevue guy got the long rebound and bolted down the court.  In my mind I was thinking that there was no way in hell that this guy would make this next shot, so I sprinted after him at full speed and the moment he jumped and began to rise up I met him about halfway and with full force took him down to the floor, not even attempting to block the shot.  Back in the day that’s a hard foul, a flagrant for sure, and I probably get ejected.  In today’s game I would have been suspended for a week.  Truthfully, I had no intention of blocking the shot and every intention of tackling the shit out of this guy.  It just so happened that as he went up my arm found its way to his neck/head/shoulder area, so it looked like I probably was trying to decapitate him instead of just hitting him hard.  My coaches weren’t very happy with the play, but I didn’t care.  I wanted to send a message and the message was sent.  

Meanwhile, I’m playing games all through the summer with my best friends.  We’re playing outdoors, indoors, in community centers, at Hoopfest, in Seattle, outside Seattle, on vacation, you name the place, we played there.  Basketball was life during the school year and those three summer months afterwards.  Hoopfest was another place that seemed to bring out teams filled with douchebags.  Jackson, Erick, Ted, Tyler, and Ryan can attest.  There were a couple teams we played that we strongly considered going head up, saying fuck the game, and just fighting them then and there.  Dirty screens, bitch ass players, I mean it took every ounce of energy not to go up for a layup and shove the ball right in their face on every possession.  Even their weak ass fans were talking shit.  It was pathetic.  Not to mention that Spokane was flirting with the 90’s during those tournaments, so maybe the heat was partially to blame.  Whatever.  Oddly enough, this awkwardly segues into me having almost come to blows with some of my closest friends while playing basketball.  It’s comical, it’s sad, and it’s true.  I’ve played my brother Jackson for years and years.  One on one games, 21-games, against each other frequently.  Jackson has beat me in hoop his fair share (he probably knows the number, I probably do too).  Naturally, I don’t like losing, so if we played series’ of three games or five games or seven games, the game’s would get more intense.  If I’m losing I get more physical.  I bump more, get more handsy, foul a little more and depending on how much I piss him off, Jackson goes into “back-down-dip-shoulder-into-chest” mode.  We’ve fought and battled, shoved, ‘bowed, and threatened (probably me the majority of the time) but we’ve never thrown punches.  We’ve just talked a whole lot of shit and exchanged a cuss word or two.  It’s all love, though.  Just ask Carson.  Carson and I have only recently been able to play basketball with one another.  There was a period when we used to play at night at Hec Ed.  There were five of us, six of us.  Carson and I got the same dog in us, so after several games or so of pure competition and fighting and hard-nosed play, it was bound to boil over at some point.  Carson and I have been face to face before, but we’ve never squabbed.  A whole lot of shit talking.  100 percent physicality.  Hard fouls.  I’ve chucked a ball at him.  90’s basketball, baby.  I love playing basketball with him though because I know exactly what I’m going to get and I’m sure he feels the same way.  Sully and I have had some historical games.  I can’t remember the exact scenario, but I probably played one of the toughest seven game series at Hec Ed against that man.  Borderline exhaustion. Stingy defense.  Neither of us wanted to lose.  Every possession more and more bumps, smacks, swipes.   If you ask him though, he’ll tell you that he wouldn’t have had it any other way.  Some people don’t want to exert their max energy or play against someone that is going to play their hardest against you.  Sully welcomed that challenge all the time and so did I.  Shit.  I’ve almost fought Miles.  I’ve almost fought Chris.  I’ve almost fought Ted.  Erick plenty of times.  Jordan.  Noah.  Ashkon.  Josh in LA.  Verbal sparring.  Bumping and brusing non-stop.  The list goes on and on and on.

Like my Hamilton basketball coach Mr. Davis said a long time ago.  “I don’t know what it is about you Josh, but people just don’t like you.”  To this day I have used that quote to my advantage as best as I could.  Nobody likes playing someone that will go full out every second of every play.  Nobody likes playing someone that will foul you hard.  Nobody likes someone that’s smaller than them, someone who doesn’t back down, stays talking shit, and pushes back.  I’m sure I’m on most people’s shit list of people to never play basketball with.  Some people won’t hoop with me anymore.  That’s ok.  I’m not sorry, though.  I can’t apologize for taking every game I play 100 percent seriously.  I can’t apologize for hating to lose.  

For the ones that keep playing with me and keep checking that basketball and keep going hard; I love, appreciate and respect you for bringing the best and worst out of me.  It’s all love.  Because at the end of the day…

If I wasn’t trying to fight you, then I was never having any fun.

les horaires des trains

You are now free
to move
about the country
when the doors close
and the tracks squeak

But there will be no moving
just stalling
just waiting
for the powers
that be
to get their shit together 

Make sure to rush
out of your house, down to the
station and
swipe your card and stand
in front of where the door should be

Make sure to get a seat
so your ass
won’t get mad at you
after all the sitting
it’s about to do

11:30 departure
11:54 arrival
ha
ha
ha

Express trains are not express trains
the world is local today, sir
the world is loco today, miss

You switch to be shifty and
hope to be
expedited

Express trains are not express trains
the world is local today, sir
the world is loco today, miss

12:20 arrival
ha
ha
ha

Clock out of your work shift
tired eyes, tired swipes
crowded trains and delayed nights

11:20 departure
11:54 arrival
ha
ha
ha

Express trains are not express trains
the world is local today, sir
the world is loco today, miss

Stuck trains and waiting games
are revolving doors for the
(im)patients and loyalists

No uptown trains, the voice says
No 1
No A
No B
No C
No D
No M, No T, No A

12:54 arrival
ha
ha
ha

the hustler

They say in New York you should get used
to the rats
and the roaches
and the stenches
and the garbage
and the glitter and gold
but they don’t warn you that
there might be a mouse
in the house

Late at night when I
write my
post of the day
I recline deep in my couch with my
feet up
spirits down
drunk off lack of sleep
and a glass filled to the brim
of silent patience and a lifetime
full
of daydreams

The paranoia of a vacant mind
is all that I have
at
this
hour
with only the
tick-tock
of my internal clock
and

The deafeningly precise
ruffle ruffle
in the corner
of a New York hustler
standing in
(almost)
at two vertical inches
with a fast-twitch tail
that Usain Bolt
couldn’t hang with

Stay still in the evening
to see the hustler
jolt by
in carefully measured
hummingbird bursts
that slide him
craftfully
hungrily
playfully
(to him)
right by my feet

The hustler
never sleeps
in the city

southern hospitality

A lot of people got
a heart that beats music
a song that breeds laughter
a soul of gold that shines bright
in the best and worst of times

Some people got
a demeanor that calms high noon nerves
a positivity that extinguishes the tension
a hope that keeps us grounded
when yesterday and tomorrow make us frightful

Few people got
a curiosity that never ceases
a truth that never wavers
a consistency that never changes
as the world begins to alter

A couple people got
a respect that strengthens daily
a back held down by hundreds
a loyalty that bolsters
the troops that seek example

But only one might have made

a side of collard greens
next to sweet candied yams
the salty and the sweet
of a rack of Barbecue ribs
next to a plate of fine fried chicken
like the cornbread that was waiting
for the sweet potato pie to finish

a food full of soul
and
a soul full of food

of southern hospitality

Synapse

Dear Mrs. Gold,
It’s 11:52PM and the metaphorical overhead with tonight’s writing doesn’t seem to be working.  Everything has remained dark for the past 20 minutes and I’m not sure what the next step is.  Let me know if you’ve got any suggestions for turning the light bulb on.

…

Dear Mr. Ferguson,
I’ve tried to duplicate the feeling from first period senior year that we had and, while some days are better than others, I haven’t found a go-to song that consistently gets me ready to conquer the day.  “Rock With You” and “Three Little Birds” set a very high bar.  My alarm clock is still “Good Morning” by Kanye West and I still play my "Mana" Pandora station.  Maybe I’m not looking in the right places?

…

Dear Mrs. Sjong,
Math has been really tough lately.  Your purple room right after lunch made for a good work environment, but no other place in the city has been able to duplicate the omnipresence of peeps, chocolate, or refrigerated leftover spaghetti.  Plus, the proof I’ve been sludging through the past 12 months or so is proving to be quite difficult.  I have my list of equations and formulas, but it looks like gibberish to me.  SOS!

…

Dear Mr. Fontaine,
Érase una vez yo hablaba el español como un niño, libre de preocupaciones, lleno de emoción, y tenía el hambre de alguien que siempre quería mas.  Ahora estoy lleno de miedo.  Siento como Flick en la película “A Bug’s Life.”  ¿Que será mi desenlace?  ¿Tienes la respuesta?

…

Dear Mrs. Johnson,
I don’t know why I don’t like certain people very much, but I really didn’t like you for several reasons.  Since that time I have learned that my natural tendency is to find certain people disagreeable way before I have a chance to get to know them.  I was hoping you could help me with this issue?

…

Dear Mrs. Thompson,
Despite having many years of schooling after you, I can say without question that you were the best teacher I ever had… and I had you for 2nd and 3rd grade.  Do you teach any classes for hopeful adults?  

…

Dear Mr. Davis,
I’ve been practicing a lot lately and after turning 25 years old I can confidently say that I’m ready to try out for Hamilton’s basketball team.  

…

Dear Ms. Leonas,
I have a topic for you today…Manhattan is neither a man, nor a hat, nor is it tan…can we discuss?

…

Dear Coach Elvig,
I have to admit that a recurring memory of mine is walking in the parking lot during junior year of high school and seeing the baseball team practicing on the field.  The thought kind of makes me nauseous.

…

Dear Mr. Jenkins,
I’m not sure what you may or may not have seen in me, but I’d like to know why certain people aren’t seeing the same thing.

…  

Dear Mr. Devised Piece,
I’m not sure why you didn’t see anything in me, but I’d like to know why certain people still don’t see anything in me.

…

Dear Mr. Bury,
If you have the recipe and the formula and by way of your teaching I understand the recipe and the formula then why do I still cook so much bad shit?

An almost-real interview with Jason Biggs

JCY:  Well Jason, first off I’d like to thank you for taking the time out of your day to do this interview.  

JB:  No problem, man.  I was happy to do it.

JCY:  I gotta say I’ve been hoping for the opportunity to interview you for some time, so I’m glad we could make this work.  

JB:  I don’t do many interviews anyway nowadays.  Hopefully I’m not too rusty.

JCY:  So, how are things?  It seems like you’ve been on a kind of acting hiatus lately and focused way more time on family.  

JB:  Yeah, well my wife and I just had our second kid, so I’ve been needed a lot more around the house lately.  It’s been great though, giving her a break and doing some hardcore daddy time, while she rests.

JCY:  I think it’s great that you do that.  Do you ever find it difficult to do something like that and try and jump back in to the industry or is it pretty easy for you to get jobs when you’re available.

JB:  It’s a little bit of both, actually.  Nowadays, I’m not really getting the lead roles like I used to, but I’m always happy to do a supporting role here or there.  Gives me more time at home.

JCY:  Now, most people from my generation would know you from the American Pie series.  Has that been a hard role for you to escape?

JB:  You know, I’m really proud of the work that I did with those guys and that cast.  I don’t think any one of us thought it was going to make it to four movies when we were shooting the first one, so in a way I’m actually really grateful for everything.  Has that character ever prevented me from seeing other roles?  Sure.  Maybe.  I’m in a good place though.  I’m happy.  And I’m confident that I have a lot of good acting years still ahead of me.

JCY:  I don’t think people realize how great of a comedy American Pie was and still is to this day.  Even though I was in elementary school, that movie seemed to capture a certain essence that other comedies struggled to show.  The relationships just seemed super real.

JB:  Yeah, man.  I think we had a really great team working on it too, so that definitely helped.  All the actors and crew were so tuned in during filming.  We all knew how funny it was going to be.

JCY:  Do you still keep in touch with those guys?  Chris?  Seann?  Alyson and Shannon?

JB:  I do.  Not as often as I would like, probably, but we’re all just so busy.  It was nice to have those sequels because it kind of brought us all back together, but like I said, not as much as we would hope.  We all follow what we’re doing, though.  We’re a family.  

JCY:  To be honest, it seems like a lot of you guys experienced your cinematic peak in those movies.  Why do you think it’s been so hard for all of you to reestablish yourselves in the industry and in different roles?  

JB:  Like you said earlier, I think American Pie was a really successful niche comedy.  A lot of high school comedies were and now that I think about it, there haven’t been a lot of examples of people really stepping outside that arena after they got that initial success.  Maybe there have been, but I think because our movie was so successful and beloved by those young people—such great characters all around—it was hard for us to find ourselves.  

JCY:  I didn’t realize this, but 1999 and 2000 were crazy years for teen movies!  I mean there was “She’s All That”, “Cruel Intentions”, “10 Things I Hate About You”, “Never Been Kissed”, “Varsity Blues”, “Bring It On”, “Teaching Miss Tingle”, “The Faculty”, “Idle Hands”, “The Skulls”…the list goes on.  For people born in the late 80’s and early 90’s those were classics!

JB:  That is pretty nuts.  A lot of talented actors, too.  

JCY:  A lot of people don’t know you started on stage.  You were 12 years old when you made your Broadway debut.  

JB:  Yup.  “Conversations With My Father.”

JCY:  What was that like?  Did it help you?

JB:  I don’t think stage acting can do anything but help you.  That was an amazing cast.  Judd Hirsch, of course, but also Tony Shaloub, David Marguiles, and my good buddy David Krumholtz.  I remember learning so much from those amazing actors and being inspired by them.  

JCY:  You also were in “The Graduate” and “Heidi Chronicles.”

JB:  I was.  Great experiences as well with wonderful actors.

JCY:  “The Graduate” was such an iconic movie and Benjamin Braddock was such an iconic character.  Did you have trouble making it your own?

JB:  I didn’t have trouble making it my own.  I knew that I wanted to handle it with care and respect because of how iconic it was.  It would have been wrong of me to treat it any other way.  

JCY:  Did it disappoint you that it wasn’t very well received during its run?

JB:  Things happen.  I think we all did great work.  That’s the nature of the business, though.  If you don’t make a certain amount of money—it was too bad. 

JCY:  Do you hope to make a return to the stage in the future?

JB:  Of course!  The stage is a great place to retrain and recalibrate.  I think I’ve always felt more comfortable on screen over the years.  It’s a welcomed challenge when I do stage work.  You can’t cheat.  

JCY:  Jason, when you’re kids come of age, will you show them American Pie and tell them that that was your best work?

JB:  Best work?  Come on…  I take it you haven’t seen “Anything Else”?

JCY:  Nope.  I missed that one.

JB:  I’ll be sure to tell them that people their age loved this when it came out and that those same people, like you, still love it to this day.  Hopefully they understand that.

JCY:  I’m sure they will.  Just curious, are you gonna show them that whole Nadia scene?  I remember when I first saw it at home my mom told me to leave the room.

JB:  That’s a great question.  I guess I’ll have to leave that up to their mother.  

Saturday Night Sounds

In the heart of Washington Heights the time reads 1:18 AM.  The engine of a high speed car has just whizzed by my bedroom window, temporarily muting the loud bass rhythms emanating from the nearby Lucky 7 Tapas Bar on the corner block.  The Spanish from the venue’s music is imperceptible, but every once in a while, if you listen close enough, you can hear the occasional “Que lo que!” or “Dimelo!” from the newcomers eagerly waiting in line and hoping to get inside.

Off in the distance police car sirens alarm throughout the adjacent neighborhoods.  They are closely followed by fully stocked swat cars whose commanding officers are shuffling through papers that list off the names of illegal immigrants inhabiting the community.  They carry huge metal poles in case they are met with resistance as well as gold crested shovels in case they need to dig through the ancient floors in the hope of finding more dirt.  

Walkie-talkies scramble orders and direct correspondance that, unbeknownst to the families soon to be involved, will dramatically alter their lives forever.    

Right now, when I put my ears to my brain and let my imagination perk up for its after hours dessert, I can hear the Wasps enjoying a late snack in some fancy lounge in midtown.  The clank of their forks poking at the spare caviar dish makes the Saturday shut-ins wince and the slurp of oyster chasers to wash down their sickening wealth makes the homeless men and women in the below-freezing temperatures vomit in unison.  

A gavel is pounded furiously by a grown man toddler in a white room with a painting of himself and a twin painting of his hair coupled with a portrait of his family and a canvas of his ancestors pointing to a tree with a man alive swinging perilously from above with a rope around his neck and a Louis Armstrong scratch coming from his mouth pleading, “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”

On the ice rink in Astoria a flash mob is dancing to a silent disco brought to you by Herbert Von Karajan.  The water bugs below the ice push their antennas to the top trying to separate the loud clanking sounds from the skates and the high pitch frequencies from the headphones that are slowly molding into each dancer’s ears.  When the music stops after the concert is done not even the participants can hear each other scream when they find out that they have all gone deaf.  The channel has been permanently set to “Harrison Bergeron’s Midnight Delights.”  

The patois from East Brooklyn is at a fever pitch.  The shut, shut, shut, shut from the 6th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st floor apartment doors and the finale of the front slams in fury.  The Hasids mumble their Yiddish and Hebrew and start power walking to the city center.  A stampede shuffle heading towards the bridge.  Some nearby reporters attempt to follow them on foot, but quickly learn that they will have to sprint if they want to keep up, their fake news reports and all.  It could also be the fact that their 100 pound cameras dragging behind are holding them back.  The Italians of the Bronx have all convened at Grand Concourse ready to make their trek down to the bridge, as well.  The languages of the five boroughs come together like an incantation ready to utter its counter-curse.  

As they all begin to quicken to a trot, an almost inaudible crackle reminiscent of slow crumpling of paper can be heard taking shape over each individual’s chest.  A magical tattoo more powerful than any forearm number or bicep brand or lashing on the back.  

Manoguayabo, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.  

Nonguén, Concepción, Chile

Nketa, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

Greenfields, Mandurah, Australia

None Chok, Bangkok, Thailand

Alboraya, Valencia, Spain
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boom

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BOOM

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boom

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BOOM

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boom

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BOOM

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boom

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BOOM

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boom

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BOOM

...in the back of the attic

Somewhere in the timeline of my life an attic opened its doors and dropped the ladder for the owner to enter.  Through its doors stood posters on the walls and copious amounts of books on the shelves, right next to all the questions I used to ask and all the innocence I pretend to have lost.  

I can see them now: the two Rawlings baseball gloves I bought, but never got a chance to play with; the first, a Center Fielder trapeze model with Ken Griffey’s signature in the palm, 12 inches… and the other, a surefire defensive net of a glove that I’m sure would have protected me from all those mental and chance baseball errors at 2nd base, a scintillating 11.5 inches.  

The trapeze was made of a beautiful black leather with tan stitching along the web and I can remember one instance in particular, a high fly ball to deep to left center at West Seattle high school, where it would have been nice to have those extra .5 inches because my leap was about a 1/2 inch too short.  And while my face rose up from the turf and I watched the ball speed away down the hill I couldn’t help but think that whoever found my lost glove didn’t even know how much his great find had fucked me over.  

Then there was the Gold Glove model infielders glove.  Personally, I think the reason it ran away from me one day in my duffel bag was because nothing that beautiful should ever be scratched or scathed.  I think I played catch one time with that glove.  It was a good game of catch.  To whoever is out there and isn’t reading this that happens to have that glove in a garage or basement somewhere…I hope you took good care of it.

Right along side those beautiful pieces of leather sit a collection of my lost and stolen wallets side-by side.  And inside of these wallets are the resurrection of all of the cards that were discarded and deemed unimportant by the lucky sons of bitches that took advantage of my forgetfulness.  One: a quicksilver folding device that I left on a ferry somewhere.  It’s contents: a 50 cent coin that I probably got on that ferry because, you know, ferries love doling out there extremely convenient change.  Don’t ask me why the country doesn’t use more two dollar bills and 50 cent pieces.

The second: a cheapish leather wallet that I either lost at Metro Cinemas or on the busride on the way home.  It’s contents: it had my first Driver’s License where somehow my actual face looked like one of those reflections where your head is super elongated and it looks like your nose could be a face of it’s own.  It didn’t want to be found so badly that it avoided the hot pursuit of an extra visit to the theater, a scavenger hunt around the neighborhood, and the vigilant eye of the Metro Bus system.

The third: a wallet that I think I had the longest.  An accumulation of duplicates, of city library cards, medical insurance cards, a top pot donut card that was half way stamped, both of my college ID’s (the old and new version), my debit card, my real ID and enhanced driver license that I got around my 21st birthday, my friends’ business cards, and lastly…my completely stamped (12 of them) Pagliacci card that would have gotten me a free slice of fucking pizza.  I can never get those back.  Some dude cut my pants when I was sleeping on the subway (big no-no) and had the nerve to take all this shit and not even use my debit card.  What a nostalgia stealing motherfucker.

Three wallets, two gloves, a UW hoodie and my virginity are probably hanging out somewhere talking about the good ol’ days when they first met each other.  I imagine they’re reminiscing alongside a memory of the Kingdome and the KeyArena, South Lake Union in it’s coffin before it was born again in the form of a new shiny coffin, and a square brick building in Wallingford with two portables outside and the entire world inside.

All these memories just hanging out in the back of the attic…
…when the door opens for the first time in months because the ladder has found its way back in.  

emptiness

The A train squeaks on its way to a silent
hush.  
5 am in the morning, Wednesday dawning
Thursday calling—
bags in hand from working all night
bags in hand so they can work all day.

Male cockroaches crawl through the
open doors allowing them to take
what’s not theirs
switch gears
rob pockets, clip cotton
careful now—
don’t want to wake the dead up.

Holsters become flaps and
jackets become rags
no valuables to be
found, nowhere to be lost, either
briefcases to steal
no avail—locked chain on a loyal wrist
no mistaking this
the thieves will go hungry tonight.

Dinner skipped, dessert too
the deserted few, downtown crew
mouths ajar, drooling
stock options and breaking news
personal projects—the back seat drivers
to the mounds of paper work for the man
working for the man, under the man.

Head on shoulders like dandruff buddies
stuck dominoes united together
to make a top tier tax bracket
salary bracelet—
A train having gotten its half hour to
three hour
rest is rearing its engine to start another 24.

Squeak to a hush and away the city’s
prized possessions go;
nodding in and out of consciousness
swaying back and forth to the stutters
of a revamped local train.

Rising up like zombies resurrected
they exit, closed-eyed, out the door.
Midtown to Lower-Mid on to Downtown.
One by one by one.

Open your eyes.

samplesize

Boy takes his first steps, first steps on his too feet
stumbles down
crawls it out
two steps on his too feet

Little boy see moon rise, sun shine on his home street
one day his whole life
sample size in his memory
Young boy sleeps too homes
back and forth every week and week
lucky that his energy is maintained with proximity

Too cars, too lives
split by
seven days

Too here, too there
one one one
mother wins the seven series

Middle man mixed with adolescence
car stopped by the sidewalk
woman seen, he don’t recognize

sister cryin
room gone
traumatized
sister cried
woman cryin

he don’t recognize

daughter gone
sample size

An ignorance-mixed-with-shit-kid
who works hard for the top minus
to get by
maybe cheats a little
little does he know
he won’t stick a little

the second seat
at the crack of dawn
on his way to school
too learn too learn

knowledge passed at 7:20
if only
if only
his eyes dint burn

if only
if only
his ears dint burn

if only
if only
his mouth dint burn

if only
if only
his tongue dint burn

if only, if only

The immature-should-be-grown-man
on his chair sits with his too feet
and wonders how he got too here
now that years fly
with no sample size

ctrl + alt + del

Nowadays
I’m so good at turning pages
or staring at my glass heroin
instead
of continuing from page 89,
doggy eared last summer

Lately
I don’t recognize any numbers
except my birthdate and my deadline
so I’m sorry if I say
“Who is this?”
or
“One day I was in a state and I deleted your number because I thought you were disposable because we haven’t talked in three weeks so that pretty much makes you an acquaintance…or something like that”

but now
when you text or call
I have to ignore this unknown number, 
so that voicemail can identify you
and these numbing seconds of sadness and fear and regret
torture me
because maybe you were more important
than Monday, the 15th thought
or
Saturday, the 2nd of this year decided

I’m so, so good
at
getting rid of things
things that had meaning
things that made space in my room
things to be sold at half price

(now my room is a lovely shade of blue with no pictures on the wall)
(a mattress with no sheets and a bookshelf with no books)
(a freshly vacuumed memory)

I’m so good at deleting you
and by deleting you, deleting me

Control, Alt, Delete is just so easy to do, you see

Why
my yearbooks have autographs with no faces
and my grades have letters with no teachers
and my friends have these names that keep fading

I don’t know
I can’t remember.

The migraine of my dreams

Clutching (choking) the toilet for dear life
I tremble
the hammering pulse blistering the temples of my brain
the remaining body weight I possess a silhouette of what I used to be
To retreat back to the bed of our engagement, to hold you close
and feel the calm pendulum of your heart against my chest
soft natural lips, smooth skin resting in mine

Bloodshot eyes that fear Macbeth’s travelling lamp
that retrace the clothes I left on the ground
due to the overheat in my system, the sweat behind my pupils
the shards of glass rupturing my vision
and the saltiness of your overtime
the splendor of your exquisite aligned teeth nurtured from your bronze shade—
hey floor, nice to meet you

“How did I get into this room?” Leonard Shelby asks
draw the curtains before I stumble
open the shades so I can appreciate you
so I can’t forget you, so your memory overtakes me
I’m dizzy because of you, when did you get here?
How do I know you?
I’m so thirsty for some wa—
your delicate belance, never seen symmetry like you before
this pillow, angelic in appearance and in touch
could be a gift from heaven
fight the light, part the dark
focus on unfocusing, it might hurt too much
breathe
through your nose idiot!
warmth of your breath makes me shiver

So this is what it feels like
to truly have butterflies in my stomach
springtime in the abdomen
a monarch butterfly’s seasonal sonata
bread
a honeybees pollination Ode to Joy
jelly, sugar
a bald eagle in Harlem
tuna, chicken, marinara, chimichurri
an atomic bomb the size of a cherry
custard, cheesecake, chocolate pudding
Hershey’s syrup almonds pop tarts—
Polka dot dresses and minimal mascara
Salsa shoes and hair de la madrugada

Late for work, no time to eat
Tired and woozy, no time for naps
forgetful, distracted the whole day for stressing—
now that the fare is paid
I can exhale a moment
— nevermind…
I can see your eyes from here
burning a whole the size of Jupiter in my soul
lightning storm on my right brain forces my 180 to grimace—
lightning storm—