Michael's Complaint

THE STONE RAGE

2012-02-17T19:20:00.000-08:00

THE STONE RAGE PM9674

I read One Hundred Years of Solitude

for the first time when I was in high school.

I reacted at first to the dirt-eating with mild

shock and distaste,

until I remembered that I had done the

same thing, in the garden, in Pinawa,

it started by picking carrots and eating them

without washing them first.

It was repugnant yet the dirt had a cleansing

effect, I wasn't aware of it at the time but

my body new it. I wouldn't eat the worms, that

would be disgusting but I would pick them out

and then toss them aside, not knowing it would have

been like a dirt sausage, a treat perhaps to the

untrained, destroyed palate of a child.

Pebbles and stones were great because they came

with so much pain,

so much sweet pain,

another feeling to think about over-riding the

foulness I so desperately needed to rid myself of,

later on came the sharp knives, slicing through the

gums and helping to eradicate the disease,

festering twenty odd years it had become even more

cruel and brutal, more than you can imagine.

I spit into the sink, mix some water making the

coriolis effect spin the water into the drain and

out into the sewers where it belonged.

But I never got it all out and what remained

festered and festered until the pain became too

unbearable even for me and so much rinsing

with anything but mouthwash could not remove

the film that remained and still remains

fixated to the insides of my cheeks, upper

and lower and the cancer which is my tongue.

A long slit in my tongue speaks of an old hockey injury

before mouthguards were mandatory,

an errant stick to be sure, helped later on by

razor blades and steak knives, a secret pocket

which will never feel entirely clean. I prayed the monster would be killed,

it would fall down and be run over by a bus and I would get my

salvation, a dance on the grave, jig in the moonlight

but age tempered all and while I couldn't shed

a tear, neither could I celebrate what I had been

desperately waiting for all my life.

I am not strong and now I have to fear everything,

she has come back to haunt me in the form of a witch

hiding in the backyard and flying away on a broom

when the sun comes up. My only protection is

a pane of glass and I breach it often, just to

try and get that taste out of my fucking mouth

along with those memories in my brain

that I cannot seem to erase,

I must be hitting the wrong button.

Three long months off the valium and

the rage has begun to return, I ignored it

at first, but it has once again taken over

I feel it inside me all the time but

I don't feel it escaping until it has made good

on the disappearance.

It wells up inside me so strongly now,

as I sit in the dark watching for the

sun to come close and the dawn to break,

when the witch flies away.

The valium gave it substance and weight

and kept it down where it belonged,

it no longer anchors in my soul, it flies

put at all hours, whether I want it to or

not,my anchor has been broken and it

lies heavy in the pit of my stomach.

I feel wretched or like retching, I can't be

sure and I can't feel safe, even about

talking, what comes from my vocal chords

is out of my control and I suffer at the

hands of maniacs that have taken root

in my brain.

How many calls to 911 do you get in a lifetime

and how many are answered by the proper authorities.

I don't question the fact that there is a knock at the

door but I have to query as to who is on the other side.

What sane person flings the doors open wide

and allows the wind to blow in all the

evil culminated in the breeze.

Evil can easily slide through the holes

in a screen door,

there is no injury done to evil,

screens were invented to keep the flies

out, maybe even the errant bird,

but a squirrel or raccoon could chew through

it easily enough.

Close all the doors and seal them tight

with masking tape, even the smallest crack

could mean the difference between life and

death, the microbes, mitochondria, amoebas

and legless snakes turn you to foolishness

when the only one you are fooling is yourself.

Once I am sealed off the rage can escape and

have nowhere to go, stealthily it will try and

squeeze out the sides of the window but if you prepare

properly it will be unsuccessful, corner it and

the battle will begin, slowly at first,

but if you can corner it in the basement with

a baseball bat you can administer the 'coup de grace'

and finish it off with a smile

and a large bonfire. Feed the flames, feed

the flames until they rise so high they engulf

the ceiling and only then

will you have conquered fear.

CONSIDERATION

2012-02-17T17:51:00.001-08:00

CONSIDERATION PM2356

Looking in the mirror I noticed orange and

purple kool-aid stains on the upper lip,

dried sugar lasting the whole day from an

unwillingness to wash my face even when

it made me look like a clown. Wash it off the

feline way even though I am standing

right in front of a bathroom sink, soap in

the soap holder,

washcloth on the towel rack,

but I licked it off with my tongue anyway,

contrasting to the saline solution mixed with

pubic hair and sweat that still lines

the insides of my mouth.

How long can I stay in the bathroom

with the door locked, not wanting to venture

out into the questionable safety of the house

where there is no where to hide,

not under the bed or behind the couch,

not in an upstairs closet or even in the

basement under the table saw,

not enough sawdust to absorb the moisture,

the fear sweat, perhaps nothing left on my

skin will ever be removed. It hurts my teeth and

I see one has become jagged, one of the big ones in

the back, but I no longer care,

my mouth is no longer mine.

I am no longer responsible for what goes on

inside there, neither do I care about the pain

that has begun to hollow it out.

It is no longer mine, but the pain is mine

to be removed or to suffer at will,

a crochet hook or a knitting needle are the

most apt tools to wreak my own form of destruction.

Wincing, I accept the pain at the gumline hoping

once I have entered and the blood starts flowing it

will relieve the pressure in my jaw.

Later I mix my own paste of cocaine and poppy seeds,

and apply it to the wounds that I have inflicted.

The wounds have covered the scars,

the scars I knew were there but I could never

see, once, very young, I don't remember

the age, I dipped my fingers in turpentine and

then tried to rub them on my gums. I must

have thrown up for hours, I was so ill, dry-heaving

until dawn, they kept me home from school the

next day, to me a punishment, I just wanted to

get the hell out of the house. Smoke helped after a

while but the tobacco smell reminded me of that stale

mouth, I even smoked Benson and Hedges Menthol 100's

to banish the memory but it had the opposite

effect and mixed with Laurentide it made me

throw up even more, the inside of my mouth

has become Terra Incognito,

it has seen way too much.

Lost Positive Thoughts

2012-02-05T11:15:00.000-08:00

LOST POSITIVE THOUGHTS
PM14001

I looked very hard for my positive
attitude this morning but it was nowhere
to be found.
It wasn't under the bed when I awoke,
nor on the bedside table where the alarm
clock I had smashed in disgust lay
blinking at me in some kind of bizarre
flirt.
As usual, the underwear and sock drawer
was not giving up any of its' private
secrets, especially on a day like today,
and the stairs once again had nothing to
offer me except maybe a potential way
to break my neck if the need arose.
I looked for solace in a cup of fresh brewed
coffee, made disgusting by adding skim milk,
who the fuck puts skim milk in coffee
and is there anyone else in the world besides
me who has to?
I knew what the answer was before I posed
the question, but nonetheless,
I asked the cat,
I asked her to tell me the secrets of the
universe, the sought after musings of the
mystics of the Himalayas, and most importantly,
I asked how I could develop a
positive attitude just for the day.
She looked at me and smiled, in that way
only a cat can.
She opened her mouth and began to speak,
I waited, the hair on the back of my head stood
up straight......
"MEOW"
Not even an explanation point needs to be
added after that as there was little exclaiming,
I gave her a few whiskas and sent her out
the door where she ran off to chase something.
Dejected, and feeling far more negative I
finished my disgusting coffee and proceeded
out the door, today, of all days,
I wasn't paying particular attention to anyone,
not my surroundings, nothing,
it wasn't until two blocks too late that I realized
I was on the wrong bus,
the wrong fucking bus, I hurried off and
had to walk back two blocks to get on another
one, I wasn't late, but I was disturbed that I
had never done that before,
I now sit at work, eyes open, but I am somewhere
else, and my search for a positive attitude towards the
day, disappears until tomorrow morning.

MCC

Comfort Music

2011-11-26T02:22:00.000-08:00

PM MMCCIV

Comfort Music

The insomnia had become unbearable,

I became Switters,

stolen directly from a Tom Robbins novel,

I transport my way to the Iraqi desert

accompanied by a group of nuns,

Why not come over?
You'll meet my mother
You'll meet my sister
You'll like my brother
Really you will...

I lie back and try to listen

without emotion

then a certain lyric

thuds in my mind and sets off the explosion

heavy zap, it creates a tear,

and I can't breathe.

Then she said,
I'm learning English
I can say "thank you"
I think I like you
Do you like my band-aid?
I hope you do...

I choke back but can't control,

I am with the nuns in the desert,

they believe in me and understand

where I am coming from.

but not where I'm going,

I cry uncontrollably.

Oh, oh, oh, oh
I am not busy
I'm free to travel
Where are you going?
Maybe you'll take me
I hope you do...

I finally gain control

and choke back the bile,

my throat is beyond my control

yet I can swallow a sob,

the nuns understand yet they

still can't help,

some are still confused

and I am at a loss to help them,

we change the song.

Oh, oh, she asked me
Do you know Vinnie?
He used to like me
I speak good English
I'm bathing with Peter
Pick me, I'm clean...

Once again I think I have won,

yet I know I will fall back under the

same spell and lose control,

I will lose control

but the voice that sends me

to the edge will also bring me

back,

and deposit me back on the

shore of the desert

with the nuns.

I have been rescued

but not saved.

Vinnie goes bare-back
Peter goes wet-back
Denny goes way back
Eddie should get back
Pick me I'm clean...

Don't listen to music I have been

told.

don't fall into the trap

where you risk it all by sobbing

uncontrollably

on the subway,

like some homeless tourette's

sufferer,

salty tears to wash the face

and scowls from the old woman

whose husband paid taxes all his life

and then happily died just to get

away.

The crying is my humanity

not my sentence to have it

taken away,

try explaining that to a guy

beside you on the bus,

nobody likes emotional men,

way too much explaining to do.

MCC

(Pick Me I'm Clean, strange "go to" song

credit to;

Frank Zappa (lead guitar, vocals)
Ike Willis (rhythm guitar, vocals)
Ray White (rhythm guitar, vocals)
Steve Vai (rhythm guitar, vocals)
Warren Cucurullo (rhythm guitar, vocals)
Denny Walley (slide guitar, vocals)
Tommy Mars (keyboards, vocals)
Peter Wolf (keyboards)
Bob Harris (keyboards, trumpet, vocals)
Ed Mann (percussion)
Arthur Barrow (bass, vocals)
Vinnie Colaiuta (drums))

Brain Zaps!

2011-11-22T03:48:00.000-08:00

PM MMXXIII

Brain Zaps

I awoke from a fitful sleep,

hardly a sleep,

more like a twenty minute nap

punctuated by nightmares

and sweats.

The sun had begun to rise,

Hemingway was right,

and as I rose

I felt the electricity

pass through a synapse in my brain,

threatening to send me back

to dreams,

where the wild things are,

changing my room back into a primeval

jungle, even though nobody

can hold back my dinner if I am bad.

I find myself enjoying the shocks,

self-imposed electric shock therapy,

involuntary and uncontrollable.

Who is holding the paddle,

controlling the watts,

who decides what needs to be erased

ad what needs to be remembered,

I have no dialogue with this entity,

yet I know them so well

and I am afraid of them.

They know too much

and they use it against me when I am

at my nadir,

wondering why I reached this point

I ask the wall and I ask my cat

but I can't bring myself to ask a human,

because I fear the answer so much

and hearing what I already know proves

to be unbearable.

I spend hours trying to understand

Robert Fripp's Exposure,

but become ensconced in the primal screaming,

the words hurt

yet the sounds are soothing.

Its difficult to breathe

and even harder to see

yet I continue down the path

passing so many underwear salesmen

on the way,

I think of Underdog

and why he continued under the most

dire of circumstances and with

such little respect and understanding.

Another zap to my brain and I am somewhere

else, swimming with no fear of drowning

but with the utmost respect for all

the sharks and moray eels in the world.

I picture Oskar, playing his drum

and I want one,

I want to drown the outside out

and if the noise gets too much I will

play louder.

Little Oskar knew, he knew how

to stem the blight and control

the voices in his head and soul,

but the drum remained the hero,

not him.

MCC

Unknown, Never Knew

2011-11-20T18:16:00.000-08:00

PM MXXII

Unknown, Never Knew;

Why didn't you ever say,

why couldn't you bring yourself

to advertise the truth,

Peter Pan was fictional,

none of us are able to fly.

Rain does come from Heaven,

no need to spoil it using science and alchemy,

we all know what thunder and lightning

sound like,

why spoil it with facts and figures,

formulas that not only baffle

and mystify,

but begin that building of doubt in

the backs of heads

wondering what else is not

true and never was.

Santa Claus comes to all,

dictated by the economy,

not whether you've been good

all year, you could have told me that

I still would have tried to be good.

Honesty is the best policy

but it brings no guarantees,

all successful people are not honest

and honest people aren't always successful,

it wouldn't have taken long to

explain that one, nor to

convince me that honesty was still

a really good idea.

Why couldn't you have taken that five minutes

and set me straight on that?

Why didn't you ever tell me that;

the world can be an awful place,

that life isn't always fair,

that food isn't always fresh

and the air we breathe is dirty

beyond imagination.

Why didn't you ever tell me that;

we are always being watched,

that our opinion does not always

matter,

and that lots of good people

do really rotten things?

Why didn't you ever tell me that;

there is so much beauty in a leaf,

refining gasoline hurts the environment,

people looked out for themselves first,

and that going to church was more than

a moral obligation?

And why the fuck did you never tell me;

that boys could also be raped?

MCC

Iron Rooster to Montreal

2011-11-20T17:46:00.000-08:00

PM MXXI

Iron Rooster to Montreal

Sitting on the platform, hungover like a bastard

contemplating whether to throw up before getting

on the train,

a private spot beside the tracks,

an homage to Saint John that will

only last until the next rainfall

which could be any minute now,

fucking maritime weather,

rain being the constant

and the norm.

The bells ring loudly

amplified by sixty ounces of scotch

shared with Joe the night before

a stupid move, knowing the long journey

into French territory

long ago Anglicized making it difficult to

differentiate between a crepe St. Jacques,

or an order of fish and chips

wrapped in yesterday's newspaper,

the grease seeping through the newsprint,

hinting at a heart attack twenty years in the

future.

The train has pulled up yet the energy to

get up did not arrive with it,

an empty bottle of Alpine slides to the

concrete as I rise,

another homage to my alcoholism

as the glass shatters into a thousand

pieces,

blanketing the ground below the bench,

with shards of beer-soaked glass

much like my stomach feels like at that

moment.

The train has come from Moncton,

before that Halifax,

on the Edmunston, Quebec City and

Montreal,

a night there and the fast one to

Toronto the next morning.

I leave the Atlantic behind, some of my

soul lies in the Bay of Fundy,

the rest in the Saint John River,

meandering its' way through

Grand Bay,

carrying my secrets out to sea,

secrets wrapped in seaweed.

I put one foot on the train and hesitate,

feeling like I should be remembering this moment

forever, looking back at Princess Street and the

new Market Square,

I bid farewell, not a tear to be shed,

but happy inside I did not leave much

behind in the gutter for the rain to wash

away.

I find a seat and wait for the final

whistle, the train begins to move,

behind schedule and

little chance of making up that lost time,

I consider sleep,

or reading, being terrorized by Edgar Allen Poe and

poor Arthur Gordon Pym of

Nantucket,

I will always miss the sea, foghorns, and

reading the names on the ships

as they head out of the harbour

under the bridge and out of

sight,

I shun Poe for the moment,

and stagger towards the bar car,

I got my train legs already.

MCC

No Accounting For Accounting

2010-12-26T15:09:00.000-08:00

No Accounting For Accounting

(PM LXI)

It absolutely boggles my mind

when somebody has less

aptitude in mathematics

than myself.

They are required to print

out three sheets, each

numbered on the top

right corner, one, two

and three.

I stamp and return copy

number two, and I keep

and file one and three.

Oh, yes, I have to staple a

sample to copy number one

if there is one.

Anyways, some people come to

the dock completely Fubar

and can't get the idea of three

fucking copies set in their

head.

Some demand all three copies

stamped and returned,

I refuse,

others keep copy number one and

give me two and three.

I try and explain to them but I get

many a gape and a long

soul-less look in the eye.

Some just throw all three

copies at me, drive away and

supposedly hope for the best.

I think I would like to take up

origami and make little

white cranes for the people,

hoping it might brighten their

day and even make them

a little smarter.

MCC

Despair and Depravity

2010-12-26T14:44:00.000-08:00

Despair and Depravity

(PM LX)

I have become one of the

"bad machines"

from Midnight Express, doomed

to walk around

in a circle in the basement

until I can be fixed

How I want to break free from that

condemned walk,

and go counter-clockwise,

shoving people out of the way and

drawing the attention of the

fixers,

that maybe I am slipping

slowly away from their grip.

Why do we have to reach the

very pit of despair and depravity

before someone reaches out to

help us.

Wouldn't it be easier to catch

sight of the souls tumbling

through the cosmos and try

to soften their landing pad

instead of trying to pick up the

pieces that have shattered

on a cold, tiled bathroom floor.

The neurons in the brain misfire

at times or do not reach across

the synapses to fire the motors

that drive you,

or so I've understood.

One of the drugs I take tries

to make the connection better,

and in doing so,

will better help me function

in society, with my family,

co-workers,

blah, blah, blah,

Wouldn't it make more sense for

me to learn to live within

society with what I have,

workable or not?

Altering my brain function

and usage has not worked,

it has alienated me more from

reality, and if I didn't have

a more patient wife and son

I would truly be fucked.

I can live inside the boundary

for a short amount of time

before slipping over the border

occasionally to dabble in what I

call "semi-blind futility".

I forget to pay bills

I spend compulsively and lose

track of money and time.

I procrastinate like crazy and I

do not complete half the

tasks I am obligated to

undertake.

Importanly I lose my vision

of reaction,

consequences disappear and

lock themselves into a part of

my brain that I can see but I do not

hear or take heed.

By the time I react,

its too late,

and I suffer because I

am conscious of my faults,

just too late to try and

avoid them.

MCC

We Don't Need A Better Mousetrap

2010-12-26T14:05:00.000-08:00

We Don't Need A Better Mousetrap

(PM LVI)

Someone should come up with

a drug that makes you feel

as though you were twenty years

old again.

Not physically, but just to have that

feeling of omnipotence,

that you had the world by

the balls,

nobody would fuck with you

and you could pretty much get

away with anything.

You don't worry about speed

limits or wearing seat belts,

you don't worry about heart attacks

or whether your insurance

is going to go sky-high.

Once the pressure sets in

and you start to feel

it,

that's when you begin to age

and unlike a fine wine,

you age poorly.

Death is frighteningly foreshadowed

by the first grey hair

or the discovery of a wrinkle

on your forehead

when you smile in the mirror.

Later you notice that it takes

you longer to stand up and take

a piss than it does to sit down.

You get sweaty from eating

and you can't stay up

drinking for three days straight

like you used to.

Your hearing becomes impaired,

knees crack when you get up,

and it takes a little bit longer

to scrape yourself off the floor

when you pass out on the hard-wood

floor, some broad has stolen

your car,

and you start your day at work

by adding a little

Bailey's to your coffee, and

by noon you're

into the Ballantine's.

Life is fucked up!

MCC

Catnip

2010-12-26T10:02:00.000-08:00

Catnip

(PM L!V)

I heard the thud on the floor

as he cat made a less

than cat-like jump from the

couch onto the hardwood.

She was graceful, lithe

and had a beautiful shiny

coat.

She came home doped up

after the operation

and was in a bit of a daze

for a day or two.

She would occasionally look

at me closely as if to ask

why we had put her through

a hysterectomy.

Surely her instinct couldn't

tell her what we had

done,

and what she would be missing.

I don't think she was really

mad at me but since

the whole episode,

I feel she doesn't wholly

trust me anymore.

Last night I woke up and she was

batting my feet,

I don't know if I had been

disturbing her,

or she was just playing with me.

She gets groggy when she sleeps

and the first half hour after she

wakes up is usually spent in

what I believe to be a

hallucinogenic paradise.

I hear her cry sometimes when

I am asleep and when I

go and search for her,

I will find her alone, staring

at the wall where maybe there

was a caterpillar a minute ago.

She cries to go outside when its raining

and when I open the door and she

sees the water coming down

she looks at me angrily and berates

me for allowing it to rain

on her property.

MCC

Barbecuing 10

2010-12-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

Barbecuing 101

(PM XLVIII)

In honor of Goose-Gate I am

going to bbq chicken tonight.

I have come close to perfecting a

dry-rub which is very basic

but it is mine.

Rubbed basil, fresh thyme and a triple soupçon

of Cayenne pepper form the main ingredients

along with kosher salt and fresh cracked

pepper.

I also add garlic powder, dry parsley,

dry hot mustard, fresh chopped rosemary and

dried oregano.

I cannot stress enough the fact

that I use absolutely no tarragon

at all. I have always disliked

tarragon and I would notice even

the smallest quantity.

Don't fuck me around on the

tarragon!!

Lately I have added two new members

to the dry rub although in

minute quantities.

Allspice, just a pinch, enough to feel the

aroma gently caress and meld

with the already pungent rub.

Now, thanks to the Food Network, I

also grind a good size tablespoon

of nutmeg into there.

I tried Bbqing steaks with nutmeg

a couple of weeks ago and

they were an instant hit,

incidentally one of the diners was an

adamant nutmeg hater!

I think I cured him, the only problem

is if I tell him,

he wouldn't like it.

I'll bathe the chicken in this

concoction rubbing it into the more

tender and hidden parts, making sure

I get plenty under the skin.

After letting it sit for maybe an hour or so

I'll bathe it in a little President's Choice Habanero

tequila BBQ sauce

just before putting it on the grill.

Depending on the size of the chicken

pieces, I usually leave them on for

an hour and a half on low, indirect

heat. This broils them up nicely.

caramelizing the BBQ sauce and just letting

them bathe in their glory.

Result- Perfect tasting chicken,

a little exotic with a zing of Habanero

and Cayenne pepper tickling the back

of your throat with each bite you take.

You won't specifically taste the nutmeg

but it will speak to you

all the way down your throat,

so brush ip on your Spanish!

By the way, don't fuck with the

chicken while it is cooking,

it will take care of itself.

Dried cumin and epices Provencal,

use them if you got them.

Could Be Any Large Corporation

2010-12-26T08:17:00.000-08:00

Could Be Any Large Corporation

(PM XLII)

One of the stations located here

in the plant where I work

experienced a restructuring

recently. What that means is

they shook up all the points of call

in the whole area

and packaged the routes out in

different orders for the paeons

to bid on and then

own.

Everytime they do this, there is

always a lot of tweaking to

be done and the union is forever

accusing the company of eliminating

jobs and making employees work harder

to cover it up.

This time has been no exception,

although it has been the most blatantly

poor restructure I have

seen in my short while here.

People who were outside delivering

for three hours are now lucky

if they finish in five.

People are calling in sick at a

tremendous rate,

leaving more work for those left

behind as they are now "forced"

back to work everyday to pick

up the slack.

People who are forced back often

call in sick the next day to

cover their anger

and the situation worsens.

Phone calls from irate customers

begin pouring in,

demanding to know why

their things are being delivered

at four in the afternoon

instead of ten in the morning.

The company will say anything,

blame it on a labour disruption,

the weather, Wikipedia or YouTube.

It doesn't matter, the real reason

will never make the news as the

loudest complainers will quickly

be silenced by superior, supervisor,service.

In other words one of them will

drop of Grandma's pension cheque,

and maybe get their cat out of a tree

while they happen to be there,

leaving them heroes,

and leaving us a bunch

of disgruntled, spoiled, overpaid,

lazy civil servants.

And that's why the country

is in the mess it is today.

MCC

Workplace Hazard

2010-12-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

Workplace Hazard

(PM XLIV)

Red had left early that day,

much earlier than usual as

said he had a number of errands

to run after work.

I think he only drank about

three beers that morning

which was light for him.

I vaguely remember saying

goodbye as he flew out the

back door like a wet cat.

Fifteen minutes later there was

a commotion in the back parking

lot by the loading docks.

I got outside in time to see Red

standing there in his underwear.

His clothes, mail bag and mail

lay strewn on the ground beside

him.

"I'll fucking see you all tomorrow,"

he yelled as I wondered what had

got into him.

His car exploded out of the parking

lot leaving the remnants in a lonely

pile on the concrete.

Within ten feet of the pile, reasons became clear

the smell of skunk rose in my nostrils

once again inspiring my gag reflex.

MCC

Extraordinary Coping Skills

2010-12-26T07:43:00.000-08:00

Extraordinary Coping Skills

(PM# XLIII)

I witnessed a pretty magnificent

marvel coming home on the bus

last night.

The bus stopped to pick someone

up,

the bus driver got out of his seat

and made the people on the bench

by the door get up and move

along.

He flicked a switch under the bench

and it swung up leaving quite

a large space.

He then activated a ramp that ran

from the door to the ground,

a guy in a supersonic futuristic

wheelchair inched his way on the

bus using a toggle he operated

with his nose.

He was very agile and it only took him

a moment to wheel the chair

around and out of everyone's way.

He couldn't talk and he could only

move his head. He had an ipod

directly in front of his face by the

controls which he operated

with his nose.

His head moved back and forth\not in any nervous fashion but

obviously in time to the

music.

There were a number of zippered

pockets on the back of his chair

making up an elaborate backpack

which I assume contained a

washroom and any other things

he would have needed in a day.

I don't know how he would have accessed

anything in there as he

was alone and had no use of his arms,

I guess he would have asked one of us.

Either he had secretly signaled the

driver or he knew where to let him

off because he got out just as

quickly as he had embarked

and I watched how he motored

off into the pouring rain,

driving with his nose.

If one of my eyes had been

gouged out at that moment, how

could I have complained about it?

And who on that bus would

have listened?

MCC

We Have No Need For A New Yogi Bear

2010-12-05T12:38:00.000-08:00

We Have No Need for A New Yogi Bear

PMCCLVII

It took a while to be able to tell my true feelings about the

new Yogi Bear 3-D Movie, I was upset when I first

found out. Yogi was one of childhood heroes and probably

for all the wrong reasons. First of all he was a rebel, he lived

off the main highway and had to steal to survive

in his own habitat. He refused to be himself and do what

bears do and eat what bears eat. He ridiculed authority,

Ranger Smith, who was quite obviously gay, was his nemesis

and he concentrated all his time into outwitting

him yet still they formed a symbiotic relationship. There were those

that thought Yogi might also be gay what with his little buddy

Boo-Boo and all but we must remember his love for Cindy-Bear

and that other weird female bear that escaped from

the zoo. I just think he thought more of his stomach

than he did about sex and lets just leave it at that.

Yogi Bear was the Homer Simpson of the seventies, surviving

despite stupidity could have been his motto and his

inexplicable need to do the opposite of any sane individual

left us reeling in laughter and breeding a special

love and respect for his foil, Boo-Boo. I have not seen the new

3-D movie or for that matter, even read about it. I'm afraid

what we are in for is a politically-correct, green, Obama-loving, Bush-hating

tamer and smarter bear that we should have left back in the

seventies with his buddies Huckleberry and Quickdraw. The idea

that children will clamour to hug this new, gentler, wild bear is not sitting well

with me and I urge you not to see it. Stay at home with some good

old-fashioned pot and watch all the episodes on Youtube.

I leave you with the immortal words of my hero;

"Looks more, like a sycamore, to me!"

Idiots In My Life

2010-11-14T12:05:00.000-08:00

Idiots In My Life (PM LII)

Reggie, grossly unsatisfactory (p)seudonym,

included in a gust of wind,

is someone I have nominated

for asshole of the month

for the rest of my life.

He just walked by,

a cup of Tim Horton's coffee

in one hand and

a stack, six or seven sheets,

of paper in the other.

I couldn't make out exactly

what the papers were

but if i was more of a betting man

I would wager

they were all useless, fake

or redundant.

He put on an air of haughty

importance,

but I knew he was even

lower in being.

than the runt in a pig's litter,

the ninth baby of a sow

with eight nipples.

His vocabulary was childish,

as though he had no

education at all,

but he tried to hide it,

behind an ancestral Greek

accent that should have been

severed the day he was

born in Canada.

When he came back my way

he finally decided to

acknowledge my presence if

not my very existence.

I greeted him coldly but with

the minimum of respect

necessary when dealing with

anyone in management.

He asked me how I was doing

and even though I knew he

didn't care, I told him I

was fine.

He walked on, shuffling his

papers and taking small sips

from his coffee cup.

I had asked for extended leave

when my mother died,

he denied it and it took

me three days of fighting

until I got it.

I got the time off,

but his belligerency

indifference and denials

that made me have to stand

up and fight for my rights

were somehow a victory

for him,

and to this day I believe he

revels in it a little every time

he sees me.

I think it would be easy to poison

almost anyone,

you could do it with indifference

and not have to witness

the outcome.

In Reggie's case, I believe

I could get my hands dirty,

and they would wash off

quickly

and guiltless.

MCC

Blue Friday

2010-11-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

Blue Friday (PM IL)

The air has cooled down immensely

and I am awaiting the impending

storm.

It is Friday and office workers

I generally never see are sneaking out

to their cars and leaving way too

early.

Employees are dropping their

stuff off in a race to get their

weekends started early,

compromising their driving ability

as well as their work ethic

I'm certain.

The sun tries to poke its' head

through the clouds but I'm

sure its going to pour,

hopefully before I get the hell

out of here.

I have read the daily newspaper

three times

and absorbed nothing,

the free papers seem to carry

the most worthless news stories,

most of which are over three

days old.

The parking lot is nearing full

capacity meaning everyone is

back and free of another

work week. I see some still

struggling their way in but they

are also done for the day,

at least mentally.

As I while away the last few hours

on a Friday afternoon I

realize the futility of rage

and hatred, if only in my mind,

I should be able to transfer it to

my hourly dealings with

all time-consumers.

Yet I feel the pull of denial and

of boredom,

feeding on every last neuron that

I possess,

bringing forth from my soul such a

frothy lament that I can't quash it,

nor can I sum up the immense

strength it would take to

completely cover up.

The second hand is moving

slower but it is still moving,

time has that awful way of

always being in control,

manifesting itself especially

when we delude ourselves

to believe that we are in

the driver's seat.

I felt the tug of time lose its

grip on my soul one time

in my life and I thought I

was going to die.

I was scared but very

reasonable and accepting to the

inevitable,

berating myself easily for not

doing enough than for doing

too much.

The feeling passed while I was in

consciousness,

and I regretted the passing

as though I had made it that

far, how could I be fucked with

even worse and have it taken

away?

Of course the light remained

on for the rest of the night and

I was able to greet another

sunrise, although even in the

dead of winter, it did appear.

MCC

Foie Gras

2010-11-14T10:25:00.000-08:00

Foie Gras (PM XLVII)

I caught a quick glimpse today

of an e-mail addressed to a

supervisor that I'm pretty sure

I was not supposed to see.

Apparently somebody had phoned

in because they saw an employee

chasing a Canada goose

in the Hillier Avenue

parking lot.

They wanted to know if the employees

had nothing better to do than

chase assorted wildlife during

the work day.

I was the goose chaser!

Actually I wasn't chasing the

fucking thing.

I had got off the bus and

walking to the plant I encountered

the goose when I walked around

a truck.

Usually they run away but

this one was brave and

was not giving me the right

of way.

I did not chase him, I lunged

in his direction hoping to change

his direction and for me to avoid

getting billed. I have been snapped

at by a goose before and

it hurts.

Anyways the goose and I

reconciled, he went his way and

I went mine.

I can't imagine who the witness

was that decided it was important

enough to send an e-mail.

I didn't notice anyone and I

don't usually check parked

cars for occupants when I

am coming into work. When I'm

leaving, its a different story.

The e-mail got covered before I could

covertly finish reading it so I

am not sure what the final

action to be taken was going to be.

I tried successfully not to worry about

it for the rest of the day,

as I was sure the union would be

able to back me up.

Goose-Gate was a dead duck.

MCC

No Pleasing Some People

2010-11-14T10:01:00.000-08:00

No Pleasing Some People (PM XLVI)

"Hey Bud," he called,

Fuck, if there's anything I hate

being called more than Bud,

I have yet to hear it.

I would sooner be called

anything else,

Diana, big nose, small dick,

fatty or smelly,

but not Bud.

It was 10:30 am and he told me

he had a load of flyers that had

to start being delivered the following

Tuesday.

Not knowing if this was possible I

went back to the office

to ask someone.

I was told there was a chance they

might not be started on Tuesday

and thats the way it was.

Noticing that there would be no

further effort to appease this fellow

I simply went back and told him

that they probably would go through

BUT there was a chance they could go

out a day later.

He looked pissed.

He pulled a fifty dollar bill out of his

pocket and offered it to me.

Long weekend, I was tempted,

but I had no control.

"Look Bud," I said, "I can only

move it so far down the line

then I would have to start paying

people and to be honest, fifty

bucks wouldn't go very far."

"They are going to go out on time

don't worry."

He put the bill back in his pocket,

"Have a nice fucking weekend Bud," he

spat before getting back into his

car.

I watched as he drove away,

seething from the "Bud" comment

I waited until after the cut-off

time to process his order.

God, I hate being called "Bud!"

MCC

Heat Wave

2010-11-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

Heat Wave (PM XLV)

He's coming straight at me,

slouching across the parking lot

on his final visit for the day,

right on a long weekend.

Sweat is pouring off his face

and collects in wide wrinkles

on the side of his neck,

weather beaten and weak he stops

at his car and somehow manages

to coax his body into opening the

door.

He slides in unceremoniously, his bulk

makes the shocks groan and squeak in

thier little metallic voice about how they

wish this guy could just lose a few

pounds and give them a break.

Getting into the car has winded him

but he manages to get it started

right away,

the air conditioning is blowing in his

face but it must still be just

hot air.

He looks beaten,

ten rounds with Mike Tyson,

and no championship belt

in sight.

Audible sighs come from inside the

car and I can feel he pain of a

man well trodden down and left

to die on an alien planet floor.

Sweat and tears can always be

interchanged, abused or confused

but I believe I saw tears escaping

from the many wrinkled folds of this

man's eyelids.

He sat for another moment,

becoming more vacant and weird

until I could see the sweat

retreating from the side of his face.

The air conditioner was beginning

to work,

he shifted into gear and got the hell

out of there,

before common sense told him to

go to the bathroom first.

MCC

Scarborough Rapid Transit

2010-11-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

Scarborough Rapid Transit (PM XLI)

The elevated train or RT as

it is called down here is

my true eight hour companion

here.

People come and go and

work changes every minute, but

every five minutes or so I can

look up and see the four cars

pass in the distance.

I am too far away to see

a face,

even if I put my glasses on,

but I can see shadows and

I know it has many

people or not.

The trains going east are heading

towards the Town Centre,

shopping malls, government

buildings, passport office,

the GO station is there for

people to continue on an

eastbound direction,

Ajax, Pickering, Whitby, Ottawa.

I like to think the mood on

the eastbound train is lighter

and happier than the west,

people going shopping or on

an adventure, both productive

ways of filling out a day.

The train heading west is something

different, almost

sinister,

and reminds me of the train

Montag rode home in Fahrenheit 451,

the line ends at the subway

station hub,

downtown,

mostly heading to work.

I can imagine the faces of the

people destined for a day of drudgery

cooped up in some small office,

much like myself.

Therefore the train west

always seems to be headed

into a storm cloud while

I keep my optimism

entrenched with the eastbound

hoping the people on that train

have much better luck.

I only ride the train east,

ironically on my way to work,

for the route home I prefer

the shorter walk to the bus,

even though it is slower, smellier

and more uncomfortable than the

train.

Torture seems less intense when it

occurs at the end of the day

instead of ruining the beginning.

MCC

More Effexor Withdrawal

2010-11-06T12:38:00.000-07:00

More Effexor Withdrawal (PM XL)

Day four of effexor withdrawal

is hard,

but it has the feeling of moving

forward instead of behind.

Overall health such as nausea,

aches and pains are on the ebb,

although there is a strong

increase in the

'crying for no reason' or crying

initiated by a real bizarre

reference such as a song on a

television show.

Frequent urination is certainly

an inconvenient side-effect,

especially when you are expected to

remain in one place unless

you are physically relieved.

I have had to make a number

of unannounced runs to

the loo but luckily they have either

gone unnoticed or it has been so slow

I was not missed.

My body responds better physically,

instead of slumping against a wall

or lie on a couch,

helpless.

I am able to overcome the

black and move past my mind

to complete tasks,

whereas two nights ago I

could not force myself to get

up and do the dishes

after supper,

last night I could do the dishes

and take the garbage

out without the world falling apart.

My sleep remains terrible and

inefficient, I sleep for maybe

an hour and a half, two hours

and then I have to get up

to urinate.

Then, stupidly, instead of trying to

go back to bed right away,

I'll go downstairs for a smoke,

thereby waking myself up even

more and stealing much

needed rest from myself.

Although the reality is that

Zopiclone has ceased to

work as an effective

sleep-aid, I can't imagine

being without it.

Out of all the drugs I take,

to me it is the most

important and the last one

I would give up.

It calms my brain even though

it doesn't always let my body

relax completely.

It works the best when I take it

with a small amount of food,

a sandwich, ice cream or

a banana,

eat too much and the effect get lost

in the food.

Eat too little and you have to

pick through your own vomit to

try and take it again.

I joined a Zopiclone support

group a while ago on Facebook,

but usually everyone is too

stoned to respond properly to

anything I post there.

Lorazepam is smooth, I'll give

it that,

but it will never take place

of the Blue Wonder,

Oh that magnificent mixture of

wonderful chemicals and a little

touch of magic and hope,

all wrapped up into a

tiny little pill,

7.5 mgs of rhovane

bound with some jell-o-like

substance I imagine,

making so many people happy,

the world over.

MCC

Deluge

2010-11-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

Deluge (PM IXL)

The sky was clear when I

boarded the bus yesterday. Two

miles to the south on Kennedy

I disembarked from the Ark

into the beginning of the flood.

Due to my umbrella the very top

of my head remained remarkably

dry, the rest of my body completely

drenched right to the scrotum.

My shoes were sopped completely

inundated I hoped for the best

and foolishly left them outside for

the night hoping the fresh cool air

would dry them.

My scientific knowledge let me down

and I began the day with

unwearable shoes, they were

still dripping,

the only shoes I could find at

such short notice,

morning without looking very

hard,

were my son's Pink Floyd

commemorative collector's edition

All-Star running sneakers,

they are nothing special

really,

black with white trim

and The Dark Side Of the Moon

prism and rainbow painted on the

back heel.

I believe they cost almost a

hundred bucks and to be honest,

they were not very comfortable.

However,

wearing these shoes has

allowed me to steal back a small

amount of my youth,

memories of hours of acid-laced euphoria

lying on my bed with the

speakers almost as high as they

could take.

The incessant heartbeat that permeates

the album making it come alive

and flow through you instead of

just into you.

Cacophonous laughter, raving lunatics

and the admission that

I've always been mad,

the lunatic is in my head,

and the sun is indeed

eclipsed by the moon.

MCC

Neenie

2010-11-04T18:16:00.000-07:00

Neenie (PM ccxxxviii)

"We thought you enjoyed fruitcake, Aunt Edna."

"Do you enjoy throwing up every five minutes, Claude?"

"Clark"

Hardly a piece of cinematic history but that one scene from National Lampoon's Vacation has resounded in every house I have lived in since the movie first hit VHS, or was it beta or laserdisc, I don't remember. The point is I think we all had an Aunt Edna growing up and a fairly stupid story about her. Our Aunt Edna was named Bess or Neenie and even though she was quite intelligent contrary to the Imogene Coca character she was quite set in her ways and we were usually about ten years too young to appreciate the things she was trying to teach us. It took me years to finally appreciate Robert Service where a five year old could just not grasp the life and death severity that existed living in Canada's north. Frankly anyone who has not tried to start a fire in a minus forty degree snowstorm with wolves howling in the distance has not truly felt the compulsion Farley Mowat probably did.

What our wonderful Aunt Bess did was introduce us to a world of literature outside the mainstream of the Canadian Scholastic Council of Jerks and prepared us to make our own decisions when we reached the time when we were forced to. Nevil Shute's The Far Country remains one of my favorite childhood books, I was introduced to it by Mrs Van der Sluys, a hundred and twenty year old English teacher Peter and I both had in Argentina. Even though we all had to read it I felt as though she had chosen the book for me personally and it had, in fact, been written for me. I know my Aunt Bess would certainly have approved of the book as I am also certain she read it.

I sat one night drinking scotch with my Aunt and we were discussing I, Claudius and she became so involved and moved by the talk that she started hurling knitting needles like javelins hoping to hit a barbarian or miscreant Gaul. She was a little embarrassed about her little show but from the glint in her eye as she hurled her spear at the big hairy barbarian I finally realized she was one of the coolest people I knew.

MCC

Blue is Back

2010-11-03T17:01:00.000-07:00

Blue is Back (PM xxxvi)

Blue is Back!

God, I love that cat!

If I'm working really

hard, it's because the guys

upstairs

are working even harder.

I would bash in the face

anyone who tried to convince

me of that.

A short time as a "rat dodger" I

have come to notice a few

things.

When a "boss" drops the stuff off

himself he invariably tries to pass

himself or herself off as a hard

done by soul who has to work so

hard to keep food on the table.

As the exhaust from their Lexus,

BMW or Mercedes wafts into my

surroundings and I point to the

"Turn Off Your Engine" sign,

I have come to notice the presence

of golf clubs in the trunk under

all the mail.

I then also notice that these people

are not dressed in the traditional

three-piece suit

these having been replaced by

orange pants and

L'Acoste alligator embroidered

golf shirts.

The look of forlornness and

desperation is probably due to

worrying about the one o'clock

tee-off time and not whether the

mail will reach its' intended

customer in time for the back to

school sale.

A loose comment regarding the

beauty of the weather in relation to

the grand game of golf earned me

a sigh and a confession that there

had not been too much time for any

kind of fun this summer.

This person did not clean his

equipment well and his clubs were

well covered with fresh dirt.

Considering whether or not to ask

him if he needed a new caddie

I let him remain in his remorse,

and his good nature for not

rubbing his good fortune

in my face.

MCC

Larval Tea

2010-11-03T16:32:00.000-07:00

Larval Tea (PMxxxv)

The old guy had come in and left his

lunch on the table beside me.

I couldn't help but take interest,

It was a No Frills bag

which contained a small

container holding possibly

a sandwich, or a sample from

last night's main meal,

a pork chop, kraft dinner,

a piece of mutton,

who knows?

That was not the interesting part,

as I could have easily peeked

inside and terminated

my inner curiosity.

What got me to wondering

was the drink he had

brought. It was a large Kraft

peanut butter jar,

well-used after the initial

contents of its' inception.

Now it was full of a brackish

water, yellow, almost urine-like

tea perhaps, but to me it seemed

too weak and dirty for even the

most exotic.

Inside there floated two very

small brown leaves, I had

no idea what they were or from

what plant they had

originated.

There was also a bud, which to me,

looked like a larva of some kind

of insect,

much like they had pulled out of the

mouth of that girl in Silence of the

Lambs, the one they had pulled

out of the river.

The concoction revolted me but I

couldn't help wondering what was

inside it.

Later on I passed by the

cafeteria and saw the man

sipping from the jar with what I

have to describe as a satisfied look

on his face,

followed by much tongue slapping

and finally a low belch.

I didn't have the nerve to ask

him what it was,

fearing that it might be

something really sick and not

really wanting to put him in

such a position where he felt he

had to tell me what was in his

lunch.

I remain mystified.

MCC

Progress Avenue

2010-11-02T17:34:00.000-07:00

Progress Avenue (PM xxxiv)

From my vantage point at my

desk I can look straight out

and see the road. From left to right

in both directions.

I'm guessing I have a

view of maybe one quarter

of a kilometer.

Most people walking by come in

to my line of vision for about

a minute,

but if I make a point of it,

it might take a normal person

to pass out of

my view.

Some stop to wait at the bus

stop right in front of me while

others pass in and out of the

knitting factory across the

road.

One day an old Chinese man

with a small cart came into

my view,

shuffling along very slowly.

He would stop for a second,

maybe pick something up like a

discarded bottle or a piece

of garbage, he would examine

each piece minutely but he

himself would discard

nothing. Everything he picked

up went into his cart.

I can see the elevated train

passing in the distance going

between Kennedy Station and the

Town Center.

Twelve trains passed while this

one man was in my view.

It took him an hour and a half

to pass in and out of my life,

and I could only watch in awe

as this old man spent an hour

and a half being more productive

than myself,

getting paid by bottle deposits

and suffering in the heat,

while I sat behind my fan

at my big desk complaining

of being bored and unloved

and getting paid for it,

Which one of us in the eyes of

God was coming closer to

realizing His grand scheme of things,

I can't help but worry that it

isn't me!

MCC

Staring Blankly

2010-11-02T17:04:00.000-07:00

Staring Blankly (PM xxxiii)

I'm trying very hard to concentrate

but I keep drawing a blank,

I can feel I have a fever,

a hundred and two maybe,

I don't have a thermometer.

I can't take another tylenol

because I'll puke,

they are getting expensive and

I've even puked in the sink

and pulled the bigger chunks'

out and tried to get them

back in my stomach,

anything to get rid of that

elusive pain that hides

somewhere between my

heart and my brain.

It never leaves me, though

I am fairly lucky that I

can usually dull it,

with medication,

lying on the couch staring

blindly at a stupid television

for hours on end is

usually my best antidote.

It doesn't matter what's on

as long as I'm being bombarded.

Controlling the levels of bombardment

are easy,

depending on the channel and

volume controls,

an out of reach remote is always

a taste of what hell would be

like,

a never-ending regis and kelly

daring you to put a gun to your

own head and end it all.

Rays of hope can sometimes shine

through on a news channel,

snippets of Pinawa,

Argentina and even Saint John

have the effect of uncovering

my bleeding soul. I can still

remember there were some good times,

good people,

and maybe that some of it

was worthwhile and I wasn't

quite smart enough to

completely fuck it up!

The sun just came out,

piercing its way through

cloud and around concrete

and steel to shed some of

its light on my lonely

existence.

It becomes brighter and I can

see through to the other end of

the dock without my glasses

on as I do always manage to

reaffirm that maybe my

existence is doing some good.

MCC

Keeping it Down

2010-11-01T17:17:00.000-07:00

Keeping it Down (PMxxxii) (For Rick Schaepart!!)

Premium Plus crackers are about

the only thing I can keep down

these last two days.

I tried eating rice yesterday

but it didn't even try and

go through the system even my old friend

Pepsi-Cola,

has been rejected by my

abused body and especially

rotting teeth.

I can drink flavored soda

water but only if there's no sugar, or fake sugar

in it,

Otherwise it erupts.

Tonight I'll try the rice gain,

hoping i've been through

the worst. It takes about

two weeks before i'll start to

feel well again, and in two

months of lazing about in a

chronic funk,

I'll probably be ready to go back

on the drug again.

I've been warned this switching

is really bad for my physical

heart.'But my mental heart relies on

it to get through the days.

The Doctor says she is going to

switch me off it to try some thing

else, but we never seem to get around to it.

He knows nothing about my

personal feelings.

I just kee refilling the

presription even when I don't take them

i have about two months in reserve,

just in case.

Maybe I'll take them with me to

Argentina when I go in a couple of weeks.

they are out of range expensive there,

and I have a few people,

who could use them

MCC

The Effects of Effexor

2010-10-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

The Effects of Effexor (PMxxxi)

I have dropped one of my

meds again,

the dreaded effexor, have to go through the entire

week,

gravely ill,

doing a new job and wondering

how the fuck I am going to make

it to the end of the week

without anyone noticing.

Going off effexor as well as making you sick

to your stomach

also makes you cry for no

apparent reason,

at any given time or place.

Usually with me it is

triggered by a song,

many ones that are a reminder

of my childhood,

for instance, Pink Floyd

and The Who are definite full-blown

bawling triggers making

me stay upwind of anything Q107.

When I am out in public

I have cried from Tiny Tim, Metallica and

The Travelling Wilburys.

Anything "Pinawa" in my mind

would also set me off.

Why do I stop taking the drug if

it makes me feel so bad and is

such an unhealthy shock to my

body.

Its the only way I can get

back in control,

and feel some emotions again.

While on the drug everything

is predestined and I lose the ability

to make a conscious decision

about how I feel and why,

I don't dream when I am taking effexor,

when I go off, I dream

constantly, when I can sleep!

The dreams are stark,

macabre, always dark

violent and frightening but at

least they exist and I am

feeling them.

The old wives tale that you can;t

die in your dreams is a load

of shit,

I have died hundreds of times

dreaming,

plane crash, decapitation,

stabbing, shooting,

falling off a Swiss Alp,

and just recently crushed under

the wheels of a Subway

train,

I've done it all!!

MCC

Dream Adventure

2010-10-31T14:51:00.000-07:00

Dream Adventure (PMxxviii)

Somehow the cat got into

my lunch bag,

she is small, but not so

small that I wouldn't have

noticed her.

Apparently I had driven to

work that morning even

though my license was

suspended and I had a

flat tire.

I noticed there was an

abundance of cats at work

that day,

where previously there had been

none.

I had to check the underbelly of

every cat,

they were all black,

to find my cat's hysterectomy

scar.

I finally found her and went

to tell my boss.

I told him I had to go home for

twenty minutes because I

had accidentally brought my

cat to work.

He balked at first until I let

him know he could dock

my pay for the time I was

gone.

Incidentally there was a

Supreme Court Judge in today

and he had brought his

daughter to work.

For some reason my wife and

son were hiding behind some containers

near where my car was parked.

I offered to drive them home

and they seemed quite happy

about that

I collected the cat and my family

and got into the car with the

flat tire.

I drove straight toward a

nearby Shell Station

to put air in the tire.

The air came out too fast

as I pumped it in.

The tire was fucked,

I guess I had tried to

patch it with electrical tape

but I had failed

miserably.

I decided to make the run

for home,

there was construction all

over the place and I was

having enough trouble

with the flat tire,

trying to manoeuvre myself

on to Kennedy,

and elude all the cops so I

wouldn't get a ticket for

driving while under suspension.

I awoke before I got home!

MCC

Not Sure Which Circle

2010-10-31T14:28:00.000-07:00

Not Sure Which Circle (PMxxvii)

I have been sentenced

to the fourth or fifth

circle of hell. I'm not sure which

and I'll have to

brush up on my Dante

to register it properly.

I have a desk on a lonely

loading dock.

In the last three hours

I have received six

boxes, so small it has

precluded me from even

getting up from my chair.

People drop nt, some I know,

others I don't.

many I don't want to even

under the direst circumstances.

I have been left to rot,

like an unripened pear,

left n the windowsill

surrounded by fruitflies

and turning black on the

bottom.

I will only be noticed

when I start to smell and

only then will I be discarded

with the rest of the

rotting refuse., which will begin its'

long journey toward being

reborn.

Who is punishing me?

I keep tracking the obvioud

on a maze and

unfortunately I always

come back to myself.

Really bad fucking decisions

always culminate leaving me

standing alone,

talking to the wind and

trying to blame the last leaf

on the tree for my own

transgressions.

Its hard to take the blame!

MCC

Left in the Trunk

2010-10-31T14:06:00.000-07:00

Left in the Trunk (PMxxvi)

I placed the four parcels

in my trunk before starting my

route,

meaning to drop them off on

my way home.

They were close by and I kneew

I couldn't forget.

I completed my work that day

about a half hour earlier

than usua,

I was so happy that my mind

forgot to remind me to

deliver the stupid parcels.

It was about four in the afternoon,

I was hoe, lying on the couch

playing a Volkswagen video game

when I remembered.

I considered just leaving them

for the next day but they had

been cracking down on

registered mail so I knew I had to

go back.

It was rush hour and it took me

forty minutes to drive them back,

when I arrived a lady came

running out of the house.

She thanked me profusely for

bringing her the parcels

which apparently contained

passports and they were flying

out that night.

"We've been on the phone with the

Post Office all day," she cried.

"I'm so glad you made it here on time."

I accepted the hero laurels

deep down knowing I was going

to catch shit the next day.

I considered phoning in sick

the next morning but I finally

decided to face the music and

get it over with.

The office was in turmoil the next

day,

someone told me they had suspended

a temp,

for not delivering some registered mail,

I hid the sign-in sheet in the

pile and silently proceeded to my desk,

as if it was just another

ordinary day.

For some reason, call it luck,

I never heard another word

about the episode,

I chose never to bring it up!

MCC

Out of Gas

2010-10-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

Out of Gas (PMxxv)

The minutes ticked by on my

dash clock,

slowly counting to six o'clock,

I was parked across from

the office at the paper

distributors.

For some reason I couldn't

face up to going to work.,,

The weather was not bad

according to letter carrier

standards but it was

wednesday,

and even though I had gone

past my point of no return

when I got out of bed, I

had convinced myself on the

ride in that I wouldn't be

productive that day.

I watched as people slowly

began to show up for

work,

lazily getting out of their

cars and trudging that few

feet to the front door.

Pain was etched on their faces

it had been a heavy week so

far and there was no reason

showing itself to make anyone

think it would be any lighter

today.

Nobody looked in my direction,

or so I thought,

I had the window cracked a

little just to let the smoke

escape, but people's minds

were elsewhere,

so I fit right into the

early morning scenery.

When the digital finally read

six o'clock,

I picked up my cell phone and

speed-dialled the office.

Peter answered the phone, probably

still had his jacket on as he had

just entered.

I told him I had a migraine

and that I wouldn't be in today,

he chuckled and said okay,

get better and we'll see you tomorrow,

I murmured something about going

to bed and he signed off

saying,

"have a safe drive home"

Sneaky little bastard, I thought.

I mused about what I would

do the rest of the day

while sitting in McDonald's,

doing the crossword

and devouring a McGriddle.

MCC

Modern Day Sisyphus

2010-10-30T17:03:00.000-07:00

Modern Day Sisyphus (PMxxiii)

He walked beside the old man

and he marvelled at him each

day he was there.

His hair was white, tinges of

grey meeting long sideburns

streaming down to the chin to

meet more grey stubble which

must have grown half an inch

immediately after shaving.

He was a hunchback, Quasimodo

letter carrier with an actual hump

that reached and crossed

over his neck. He walked as

though one leg was one foot

shorter than the other,

always at the same pace, his

head comically bobbing with a

permanent shit-eating grin

etched on his lips.

He didn't speak much but

when he did, saliva would

fly between sentences making

people keep at least a three foot

barrier to stay dry.

He didn't move quickly

but he made progress

making a limp seem like a

normal gait.

His hands sorted mail like

a machine, carpal tunnel

syndrome had set in but he

adapted his movement of the

gnarled claws to get the

letters where they were

supposed to go.

One day he watched him

change his socks before heading

out,

his feet were almost black

surrounded by huge yellow

toenails that passed the edges

of his toes making his feet one

size larger. Arches had disappeared

and callouses and skin had become

one, all at once looking brittle

enough to break but in reality

as hard as the thickest leather

soul.

He ate a cheese and onion sandwich

before leaving,

same thing everyday, no teeth

evident,

younger men would complain of aches

and pains, and take sick days for

sniffle,

he would hear, and smirk with contempt.

MCC

Meltdown

2010-10-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

Meltdown (PMxxi)

His breakdown was imminent,

even O could tell without

amy medical background.

He was close to retirement,

less than six months.

He used to be the best

carrier in the station.

His work was always done, first,

and he used to sit and smile

and drink a coffee

while he waited for final

call.

He would look out at the rest

of us as if we were inferior,

running around at the last

minute,

stuffing bags and getting them

off to the drivers before

they left.

He would sit there, smiling,

drinking his coffee

the supervisor never bothered

him,

always supposed he had the

job done,

one less person to

worry about.

One day around final call,

he was there desperately

putting up mail,

his steaming coffee was

on the desk next to him but

it hadn't been touched.

He was on fire, sweating

profusely and if I'm not

mistaken a steady stream

of curses was coming out of

his mouth.

I left before him, he had

finally sat down to drink

his cold coffee,

a look of defeat permeated

his being and I felt bad

for him.

The next day he lasted about

an hour,

trays of mail hit the floor,

the supervisor, stunned, asked

what was wrong,

he told the supervisor to

go fuck himself!

He walked out onto the dock

and tossed his coffee cup

at the back of a truck,

smashing the cup and window

into a million pieces,

he carried on to his car and

disappeared,

I never saw him again.

MCC

Bored Law Enforcement

2010-10-30T16:02:00.000-07:00

Bored Law Enforcement (PMxii)

Out of one corner of his

eye, he saw the cop being

shown where the office was

by another employee.

He wondered for a moment

what he was doing there

and then he promptly put it

out of his mind.

Only to pop back in five

minutes later when he was

summoned to the office.

His mind raced as he made his

way down the aisle,

he could see the cop in the

office window,

had somebody died?

was somebody dying?

He thought of his mother who

had been ill for some time,

but why would they send the

police to tell him?

Sara introduced him to the cop

when he walked in,

he was grim, but he looked more inconvenienced

than anything else.

He noticed with great relief that

he had not reached for his gun

or handcuffs.

Officer Friendly quickly got to the

point.

Apparently he had threatened to

beat up Fonzie the week

previously.

He couldn't remember the incident

and it was not really in his

nature to threaten people with

a beating,

so he naturally denied it.

The cop was angry,

not at him, but at Fonzie

for wasting his time.

There was a lot of gang crime

in the area at that time

and the police were very busy.

They didn't have time to

keep an eye on rogue postal

workers threatening their

fellow employees.

He basically just told me to

behave and left it at that,

he left very quickly

his radio squawking about

a nearby accident.

As he walked back to his

desk he looked for Fonzie,

he saw him at the back

pretending to work and a smile

on his face.

Grinning from ear to ear.

He waited a second for Fonzie

to look up at him,

when he did,

he drew his fingers across his

neck,

universal symbol for

I'm going to fucking kill you.

He decided to take the rest of

the day off,

picking up his bag,

he walked out the back door.

MCC

Lousy Microcosms

2010-10-25T15:27:00.000-07:00

Lousy Microcosms (PM xxii)

There is an undertone of hatred

and hostility here that

has soaked into the walls

and the very office

furniture.

The President hates us

all,

with our petulant whining

and our slew of insignificant problems

that take up too much

of her day,

resulting in lost time and a

smaller bonus.

The senators dislike us

for the same reasons but are

not as far removed from us to

hate us yet.

Those that have moved up from

our place

forget forget what it was like to face

the weather,

and don't remember the actual time

it took when the loads

got heavier.

They don't make much more

money than us and we are better

protected,

so why is their entire day

focused on babysitting a bunch

of adults?

The pages hate the runners

because they only work

four hours a day,

the runners hate the pages

because they sit around on their

asses all night and talk. They

make too many mistakes and

make their jobs harder.

The regents put too much

paper up and put magazines out

late so the runners have to

work harder and can't leave

earlier.

The knaves are slow,

and they gossip too much when

they should be working.

There are also untouchables,

the walking wounded,

bent over hunchbacks with

broken hips and sprained

shoulders, gimpy knees,

obesity and heart disease,

alcoholics and drug addicts,

barely able to walk and always

on the verge of being

fired.

They meander through the easiest

work, like ghosts punching a

time clock, every tissue used

until the fire is extinguished.

The horror... The Horror...

MCC

Nobody's Listening

2010-10-25T14:26:00.000-07:00

Nobody's Listening (PMxx)

I feel the sting of indifference

enter my body and fill my

soul with bitter venom

infecting my bloodstream and

rendering me a seething mass

of hatred and sadness.

I pull my socks all the way up

almost to my balls

and hope to plod on with that

very Anglo piece of advice.

The socks fall so fast and

my garters are useless to grab

them and perhaps give me

a fighting chance.

I make the phone calls I am

supposed to make,

and keep the appointments

with the people I am

supposed to see.

They look through me, hoping

I will go away

and disappear from their list

of people they are supposed

to fix.

I walk out of these meetings

knowing my problems have

not been solved,

and at best I have only

delayed the inevitable and

perhaps even extended my

period of suffering.

They think they've fooled me

into a sense of security

and sanity, a strong mix

of depravity and stupidity.

I have not been fooled.

I found myself thinking the

other day,

of just jumping on a plane

and hoping to land somewhere

less hostile,

more welcoming.

Strangely I find myself in

Nigeria of all places,

noted in my brain is a picture

postcard I was sent by

an Israeli friend,

of a woman potmaker,

showing off her pot in the

streets of Lagos.

When I got out of

the airport I would find

this woman,

and ask her to teach me her

artisan trade.

I would hide my non-blackness

with a couple of weeks

in the sun,

and then I could blend in,

and make pots,

and everything would work out

okay.

MCC

Admonishment!

2010-10-25T13:48:00.000-07:00

Admonishment (PM xi)

She sat across from me behind

her small desk in a large

office.

I didn't know what to make of

her,

and I knew she didn't know

what to expect from me.

The Human Rights Lady,

I had been ordered to visit

he today on account of

something I had said to a

co-worker,

something like he should kill

everyone if we pissed him off

so much.

I was only kidding, sort of,

but I had said it loud enough

for a weasel bitch in the office to

hear.

I had been made an example and

I just wanted to get this over

with,

before I git fed up and killed

someone!

She told me why I was there

and why I had to learn to

be careful of what I said.

I stifled the urge to start

an argument and agreed I should not have said it,

but,

it was a small station where

I knew everyone,

and surely they realized I

was only joking.

She looked stressed,

she groaned, a little noise

to make me feel as though

I was a moron.

"You need to say that you

understand you were wrong

and that your actions and

and words were unacceptable

in the workplace," she frowned

at me across the desk.

"I understand," I choked,

"but",

"No buts," she snapped.

I sighed and gave up,

"I understand."

She made me sign a letter

stating that I had committed

an offense,

that I understood

the consequences,

and that if it came up

again I could be charged

under the Human Rights Act,

Article # blah, blah,

fucking blah!

I try not to speak above a

dull whisper.

I don't discuss religion,

politics,

misogyny,

race,

sexual orientation,

and especially transvestites,

who seem to have more rights

than anyone in this

new era of complete

love and understanding.

Shut the fuck up and try to

be understanding of

hermaphrodites,

they are people too!

I was once admonished for

professing my love

for Mary Magdalene,

as though I had said something

sick?

MCC

Facing Your Boulder

2010-10-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

Facing Your Boulder (PM xix)

I am certainly being

punished by my faceless

corporation.

The audacity of becoming sick

and not living up to my

potential has pissed off

someone in the upper

hierarchy.

I was destined to slug it out

at least another twenty more years out

on the street,

plodding through cold, icy

winters and

humid summer heat.

They needed people to climb

all those stairs with fifty

pounds strapped to

their backs,

or spend a morning in a

blizzard,

pushing against the wind

to make each step,

bent over forty-five degrees to

deliver some asshole his

welfare cheque or notices for

immigrants that they had been

granted status and they

could continue to collect

social assistance.

Clerks are derided here and

treated very poorly

second class citizens

relegated to perform the

most menial of tasks under

the whip of some minor

community college graduate

who still lives at home with their parents.

Some supervisors are ex-letter carriers

who noted for their stupidity

and willingness to follow orders,

are put in charge of their]peers

and expected to get results.

They encounter much

resentment and hatred and

last only as long as they

become less human and forget

the trials they once had to

undergo with their fellow

human beings.

The weak and the soon

find themselves on their way

out the door.

Its a round about route and

very tiring,

the fight is lost when the fire

goes out and the ability to

fight back is lost.

Much cleaner to have them

quit,

than to be fired.

MCC

Rare Ideas

2010-10-22T16:40:00.000-07:00

Rare Ideas (PM xvi)

The mosquitos are out tonight

in force,

I can hear them whirring above

my head,

and occasionally one makes it

into my ear,

and the echo is intense.

I dig inside my ear to kill it

but I fear it will stay in there

dead,

and rot out the insides.

I wait for it to fly out and

it always does,

yet the feeling of something flying

around in your head is

most agonizing.

A rare thought will do the same

thing in my brain,

passing through to make a

brilliant point or maybe

entering just to remind me

of how stupid I am.

Bad decisions begin like that,

not quite acceptable to the

gray matter,

yet strong enough to somehoe

overpower reason and become

the way of things

the security guards in my brain

are not doing their job

properly,

they should be screening these

retarded thoughts and not

let them onto the inner sanctum.

I guess I am only paying them

minimum wage,

and I am getting what I paid

for.

Now the big question is,

do I fire them and hope to find

better ones that will work for the

same price?

Or do I negotiate with the ones present,

or maybe offer them dental

and eyeglass coverage.

MCC

Valium

2010-10-22T16:17:00.000-07:00

Valium (PMx111)

I am in somewhat of a daze

today,

the remnants of zopiclone

and valium are still running

motor parts of my brain

making concentration frankly

impossible,

conversations are short and to

the point, I don't really

have anything to say at the

moment,

and forget the question I

am asking,

in the middle of asking it.

Nobody has noticed, I don't

think,

because the kids are gone,

no longeer needing to wake early

to go to school,

throwing some vanilla rice krispies

into a lake and letting them sit

there. I don't care how much he eats

so long as he eats. Our

doctor told us that a baby will never

starve itself,

they eat when they are hungry,

and thats it.

I'm having the most trouble

keeping my eyes open at

the moment.

They are not working properly.

Looking back at xiii I can say

that I missed the blue of orange

whatever that means, I'll

try and take a walk and shake

out those nasty infiltrators.

MCC

A Time to Quit

2010-10-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

A Time to Quit (PMx)

I almost slid off the road

three times, just on the way

to work.

It was raining in the middle

of winter and the earth had

had become a sheet of solid ice.

I arrived at work to find a

quarter of the people had already

called in sick,

I had lost my chance by my

initial appearance.

There was a lot of mail and an

equally large amount of flyers to

be delivered.

Sometime in bad weather we

were allowed to leave some

behind.

Today the bitch said no,

everything had to go.

The wind was blowing the rain

and I was soaked within

minutes.

Ice had formed on my face

and my rainwear was drenched,

making it useless,

I had my cleats on but I

still slipped on the icy parts,

doing a little dance and hoping

not to fall on the hard ice.

The mail on my bag became saturated,

and the flyers fell apart as they

made the trip from my hand

to the mailbox.

They were rendered unreadable

but I had little choice

and continued on my

foolhardy adventure.

I have never been so cold and

so wet,

my boots had filled with water

and my feet had become numb.

Each step became slower and the

pain increased in my legs as my

skin froze and rubbed against

my frozen icy pants.

The mail was destroyed,

I was pouring cocktails of Hydro Bills

and Mastercard statements

into mailboxes with a garnish

of Pizza Hut flyers disintegrating

as they fell.

The streets were empty as I

continued my lonely travail,

after I had fallen the

third time I stopped

counting.

The ice was stinging my

cheeks yet I could feel warm

tears dropping down,

melting the ice and as I

stifled the urge to cru I

realized I was already crying.

The last hour passed in a daze

and as I trudged back to my

car,

I sat in the front seat so wet

and miserable, I couldn't feel my feet.

My cigarettes had become doused

and I had nothing to smoke, it

seemed the heater in the car did

not start working until I pulled

into my driveway.

I came so close to quittng

that day.

MCC

One Red Baron

2010-10-19T15:32:00.000-07:00

One Red Baron (PMviii)

Red had signalled him to

sneak out for a smoke so he

followed him out through te

back dock.

He didn't want the bitch to see

him going out again or she

would definitely get bent on

an estrogen-induced power trip

and anti-smoking tirade.

As soon as Red got out the

door he pulled a beer out of

his coat.

Sleeman's honey lager, It

looked real good but since he

didn't drink anymore he declined

the silent offer when Red tipped the

bottle in his direction.

By this time he had his cigarette

lit.

Red had downed the first bbr

and reached back in his coat for

another one.

His sip of beer would empty half

the bottle.

He had finished three by the time

they had done the smoke break.

He tossed the empties in the

dumpster on his way back in

the pffice, the smash of breaking

glass reminded him him of his

teenage year, shooting bbs at

empty beer and liquor bottles.

Red became more expressive and

talkative as the morning wore

on,

they went on two more smoke

breaks so he had drunk nine

bottles of beer by the time they were

ready to go out on the road.

He saw Red get in his Mustang

and peel out of the parking

lot,

plastic adornment testicles

hung from the rear bumper.

How the fuck could he walk

five miles, delivering mail after

drinking that much beer?

The logistics were staggering to me

then I considered stopping to take

a piss and I never knew how he

managed.

His name was Red, he was good

friend.

MCC

Water Under a Bridge

2010-10-19T15:11:00.000-07:00

Water Under a Bridge (PMvii

The crisis began early in the

morning,

whispers began as soon as

he arrived.

He heard someone had been caught

throwing mail off a bridge,

in broad daylight,

they had parked a company

truck on a busy bridge,

and proceeded to toss three bags

of mail into the Dniester River.

They received a total of ten

phone calls,

all with the truck's number

and most had vague descriptions of the

culprit.

The mail had been recovered and

brought back to the station,

the bags had been emptied

and the letter were stacked near

a heater,

apparently to dry off.

He got close to it and he

could really smell it.

Dead fish, sea weed and just a

plain dirty river aroma

wafted from the pile.

He looked at all the mail and

wondered what the people would

say when they had it delivered

to them.

It would still be wet and it

would certainly still smell.

He smiled to himself and wondered

if the guy thought he was going to get

away with it,

or was it just an act of sheer

desperation to quickly rid himself

of the last of the day's delivery.

What was going through his head as

he was doing it and what was he

thinking now?

How did they get the mail out of the

river?

Did they have special boats they used

for such a purpose?

He questioned everyone that morning

but found out more information.

The next day he found out the guy

had been given two weeks sick

leave to see his doctor and get

some help.

Two weeks later....... he was back,

delivering mail.

MCC

Me as Meursault

2010-10-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

Me as Meursault (PMxvii)

At the top of every hour he

heard the click on the door

as the guard looked in through

the slot to make sure he hadn't

cheated the guillotine.

Why didn't they just leave

the fucking thing open so he

wouldn't have to feel that noise

so violently every night.

He had only one days left,

five to be exact.

The Governor had told him

to kiss his ass and that was it,

there would be no last minute

reprieve.

They had tested the guillotine

yesterday using sugar cane.

They had made a bundle of

about a dozen poles and then

sliced them in half.

Sweet water seeped out of the

ends of the cane,

and the guards gave them

to the squealing children,

who lapped it up, he hoped

they had cleaned the blade well.

He had found a roach in his

soup that day at lunch,

swimming on the edge of the

bowl, half drowned yet still

making that effort to survive

by getting out of the bowl.

He was not to be so lucky,

his bowl was too large and he

was already too wet,

he rescued the roach and put

him on the window to dry out

in the sun and escape.

He had chosen his last meal,

flattened duck with black bean

sauce and parisienne potatoes,

leeks and green beans.

For dessert, a butterscotch

sundae with pralines and

toffee crumbs.

They were very good with

their last meals,

and they would serve it

to you at noon so you

had at least twelve hours

to digest some of it.

There was nothing else to do

now but while away the

hours, it could now bw

measured in hours, until

his life ended in a glint

of steel followed by an

incredibly fast gush of

blood.

It would be embarrassing,

knowing his body would roll

off into a cart and his head

would fall forward into a basket.

He shivered as he pictured his

end and then sighed,

lighting up another cigarette

he tried to cry but the tears

would not come,

he had forgotten how.

Angrily he got up and checked

on the roach he had left on

the window.

It had moved and was almost

beyond the bars.

Using his cigarette, he burnt its

abdomen,

watching it curl up into a

charred ball he felt at

peace and understood why

he would receive no clemency.

MCC

Peanut Butter and Tomato Sandwich

2010-10-16T13:31:00.000-07:00

Peanut Butter and Tomato Sandwich (PMxiv)

I noticed more and more

the rolling waves,

almost tsunami-like in their

fierceness.

They were in my head yet I

had no idea where they

had come from,

and more importantly

what it was they wanted.

My focus would only last

seconds and I would find

myself staring blankly at a

wall,

trying to make sense of the

shadows,

that frequently danced

fooling me into believing

that I was their creator,

and they were not just

random bits of light projected

by the movement of a hundred

different employees,

who unlikely were paying very

little attention to me.

I hung on, moving forward and

hoping the dense fog would

disappear and bring me back to

the real world,

where I never belonged,

nor had any inkling to join.

I was still chasing shadows on

the wall when I realized that

lunch was over,

and I had been left by

my peers,

unwoven,

left to fend for myself against

demons, bent on destroying

my livelihood in the name

of corporate greed.

If someone above you always

seems to be holding a gun

your only hope is to keep fighting until

you know they have gone away.

MCC

Be'ersheva In MY Neurons

2010-10-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

Be'ersheva In MY Neurons (PMxv)

What planet was I on last

Friday?

I remember being here but for

the life of me I cannot construct

what I did,

what I wrote,

who I spoke to and why.

Feelings of idiocy soak my inner

pulse,

and I worry if I offended anyone

in passing,

or just from the act of sitting in

my chair and dreaming from

side to side.

I feel the pulse, the heartbeat

of something moving towards

me,

like the score from Alien,

I can't see what's coming but

I can distinctly feel tentacles

reaching out for me

and I know something

is not as it should

be.

I have envisioned a live

circus act in my brain,

acrobats flying overhead, a

lion tamer without the top hat,

various clowns in various

stages of undress, and some

only partly made-up, frowns

etched on frowny faces making

them doubly sad and even

more disturbing.

I watch as the man is shot

out of the cannon and he disappears

through the hole he made in the

canvas of the tent,

straight from a Yogi Bear cartoon.

I have left the circus now and

I wander home through the

empty streets,

stepping over garbage,

all of it seeming to come from

McDonald's as if they had

somehow trained the garbage

cans to reject that filth.

I see a car's headlights in the

distance and I hide in a

doorway,

feeling that someone is looking

for me,

even probably wanting to

hurt me.

I watch as the car passes

the driver, eyes looking forward

does not pay me a glance,

yet the passenger has stared

deep into my eyes,

fondling the skin of my soul

and preparing to infiltrate.

I look away into time and

watch as the car continues along

the street and out of sight.

Five minutes later I am back home

in bed,

the clock is ticking,

and the cat is purring at

the foot of the bed.

It is hot, but the window is

wide open allowing the aroma

of the street to waft it's way

in.

I sleep but I do not dream,

I only dream when I am

awake.

MCC

Unappreciated Art

2010-10-15T14:55:00.000-07:00

Unappreciated Art (PMvi)

The case, two cases over from him

near the door

was always full of flyers.

The guy on Friday had decided

to do the guy a favor

and help him out on a

Monday.

They were stacked very neatly in

the slots

largest to smallest,

all different colors.

The bright red of Super Fitness,

nestled close to orange

Pizza Pizza coupons

with a generic green in the

middle,

an advertisement for a new

dentist in the neighborhood,

free cleaning with initial

examination,

not including x-rays.

The woman on the front had

a huge smile on her face

and the biggest, whitest

teeth you have ever seen.

Truly a compelling reason to

visit this dentist,

like she would be there!

He admired the case for a

while,

enjoying the colors, the patterns

and mathematical symmetry like

a huge unfettered

kaleidoscope.

He passed it by and moved to his

own desk,

coffee in hand and the burdens of

Monday

already feeding on his beaten brain.

He noticed the other carrier entering

after a weeks holiday,

he waited to watch his reaction

as he saw the beautiful design

left by his replacement.

He took one look and his bag

dropped to the floor.

For fuck sakes, he heard

and he watched as flyers

were picked out of the slots

and tossed onto the floor.

They blew in the slight breeze

and landed mish-mash on the

floor surrounding the desks.

He didn't stop until he had

removed all the offending pieces

of paper,

then he picked up his bag and

walked out.

The patterns and design had

been altered,

organization had been lost but he

still recognized the beauty of the

paper,

like fallen leaves scattered on

the grass,

followed by the look of bewilderment

on the supervisor's face,

as he came to check on

the ruckus.

MCC

Fonzie Fell?

2010-10-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

Fonzie Fell? (PM1v)

He came back to the station early one

day to find Fonzie still there,

he was fucking around with his

chair. He pretended not to notice

him and passed into the next

aisle, hoping to avoid any

kind of conversation or worse,

confrontation.

The next day Fonzie was there as

usual, but he was very quiet,

even for him.

He ignored him and began his

morning sort.

After the coffee truck left, Fonzie

was sitting in his chair,

eating a hot dog.

Suddenly there was a crash,

mail and processed pork flew

by him and hit the floor beside

his desk.

Fonzie was on the floor,

moaning and making a funny

noise,

like an albatross getting

fucked by a goat. Fonzie got

up shakily and went to Ted.

"Help me walk outside," he said

to the poor bystander.

Ted helped him hobble out

the door, and he returned

fifteen minutes later,

still limping.

He left.

Days later he was asked if he

witnessed the fall,

he said he didn't but he

wouldn't offer any details about

what he had seen the day before,

Fonzie fucking with his chair.

He was of work for two months,

and modified duties for two

years.

He really hated Fonzie, but he

could never bring himself to

instigate his downfall.

Fonzie even called the cops on

him one day;

Hero-fucking sandwich.

MCC

Attack on Treverton

2010-10-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

Attack On Treverton (PMv)

He felt a little different that

morning,

shittier than usual but with

that anti-depressant induced

overtone that reaches beyond

malaise and into actual nausea.

He walked to work in a very

light rain, not enough to worry

about.

Mail was light that day but there

were a lot of flyers,

he reached down to lift a tub

of paper

and he felt uncomfortable in

the shoulders.

He wrote it off as muscle

pain and continued his daily

routine.

He stopped at the drug store and

bought a green tea ginger ale

hoping to put out the small fire

that was ignited in his chest.

It didn't work.

He concentrated making it from one

house to the next,

he moved slowly, there was no

pain, but it became more

difficult as he moved.

When he finished the street he

was done.

He decided to go home and go to

bed.

On his way back to the station

he stopped to smoke a

cigarette but somehow he didn't

enjoy it.

The boss dropped him off at the

emergency department,

with a taxi chit,

and sore shoulders.

He calmly entered, hoping he

would be heading home

far sooner than later.

Three hours after entering he was

whisked to another hospital

siren blaring,

they put two stents in his heart

that day and told him he was very

lucky he didn't go home

and go to bed

as he had planned.

MCC

The Idiot

2010-10-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

The Idiot (PMiii)

He resisted the urge to spit on him

even as the bile hid behind his

teeth waiting to be hurled

across the void,

landing smack dab in the middle of

his face.

He watched him as he continued his

rant of inexplicable musings and

beliefs.

They were going to move us all,

he said,

to a new building out near

Rouen....

They had already purchased the land

near the new airport,

and were waiting to corral the

whole city's correspondence

to one building,

miles away from where it belonged.

He looked closely at the idiot

and saw a lack of colour in his eyes,

blank, dull empty, black nearer to gray

and back again,

he continued to spout

hands in his pockets and the

gayest pair of socks he had

ever seen.

He asked him one day if he

had, perhaps,

taken his wife's socks by

mistake.

He was greeted with great

offence,

and then informed that they were

special men's socks,

specially made to be worn with shorts

and running shoes.

He chuckled to himself, imagining

the idea that this chucklehead

dressed every morning with

the idea that he was somehow

making a fashion statement.

He listened for another minute,

then threw his cigarette

on the pile,

and started pushing the rock

back up the hill again.

MCC

El Train

2010-10-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

El Train (PMii)

The faces on the train were tired,

but fatigued from a night out,

filled with fun and frolic,

eating, dancing and loud banter

with friends.

They headed home for the night,

maybe a little too late,

to still make it to work the next

day,

a little hung over but alive.

One or two people in every car

sat there with sunken eyes,

tired from lack of sleep and not

from fun,

worried how they would last eight

hours at work,

after two hours of sleep all day.

Insides cried and reached out for

fellow sufferers

but remained unanswered from

the destroyed spirits that lay

within.

As the train shuddered and neared

his stop he looked across at

a young girl, pretty, in a black

dress, talking on a cell phone.

He listened and he could hear

her berating her mother,

she would stay out as late as

she wanted,

with whomever she wanted.

Mom was pissed,

she had to get up early for

school and she was out too

late.

"Take a pill, Mom," she spat into

her phone,

"I'll get to school on time,"

she hung up in disgust.

The train stopped and he quickly

got out,

seeing he was late.

But out of the corner of his eye

he saw her looking in her compact

and adjusting her eyes,

one day, he thought,

she will be on the graveyard

shift.

MCC

A Postal Musing #i Return to Sender

2010-10-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

Crossed lines,

shattered through names

and places,

a noun deleter,

wielded by an illiterate hulk,

solely bent on arriving at the

bar, before eleven.

A second look would have

provided a clue,

to the proper domicile,

eagerly awaited by the lonely

shut-in,

only too happy to receive

anything with her name on it.

Instead, reconciled to a tray,

covered in dust,

coffee stains and huge indifference.

the tray might sit there for

three months or more,

until noticed by a new face

with something to prove.

All hell would break loose

and Satan himself would be

summoned and interrogated,

as to why hundreds of trays

had been abandoned in a

corner,

waiting to be sent back to the

original owner.

A whip would crack and

someone would appear to

turn on the machine and

wade into the unlit pyre.

Eight hours a day, for weeks

on end,

the humming and clinking of

the machinery,

lulled him into disaster-stricken

daydreams,

filled with roosters, horses,

coffee stains and so much

love,

addressed to someone who was

no longer there.

MCC

Sinful Correspondence

2010-10-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

Sinful Correspondence

The lady was waiting for me at

the door as I climbed the

eight stairs to reach the top.

She was gorgeous, a real treat

to look at but I had noticed the

thin lips right from the bottom of the

stairs and I had become wary.

She was holding the letter and

tapping it against her other

hand, she waited for me to

reach the top before speaking.

Her beauty faded quite rapidly

as she began to speak.

"Are you stupid," she asked,

almost nonchalantly,

I stared but kept quiet as it

seemed to be one of those

questions that it didn't pay

to answer.

"This is the third time I have

got mail from these people,

it says number four,

and this is number six."

I looked at the letter

and noticed immediately that

she was right.

I had fucked up and now it

was time to face the music.

"You know I don't like the idea

that maybe you are delivering

my mail to another house," she

hissed, "You have to pay more

attention to your job."

I looked closely into her eyes

and saw Satan, I had

committed the ultimate sin and now

I had to answer to the demon.

"I mean, how hard is it to

look at the number and put it

in the right box, don't they

train you people on how to do

it right?"

One thousand invectives rose to

my lips and I stifled them

all. It was all I could do to

stop myself from reaching out

and strangling this woman,

after making her eat the letter.

I could reach down her throat

and pull out her heart but I

was unsure whether

I would find one beating

in there.

I reached out and grabbed the

letter and after verifying

that I had indeed made the

horrifying mistake,

I slowly reached over the

railing and deposited it into

the box next door.

The heavens did not open up

and strike me down,

I simply grinned,

turned around and walked

down the stairs.

I did not look back up the

stairs but a few houses down

I did hear a door slam.

MCC

Night Shift

2010-10-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

NIGHT SHIFT

The stars were staring at me

tonight while I was outside.

They had poked through the

clouds and the haze that had

surrounded the city for a few

days now.

A cool breeze had just blown in

and made it tolerable,

to get outside, out of the air

conditioning,

cooled down actually and

thoroughly as I watched and

wondered what they were

thinking and what we looked

like from such a distance,

I can only imagine.

Maybe there was someone sitting

on one of those points of light

directing a giant magnifying glass

ready to try and burn us

all up like ants.

That would explain all the heat

waves this summer

with the debilitating humidity

that sucked the very air

out of my lungs and left me

gasping on the couch like

a fish out of water,

helpless and dying, depending

on someone unknown to

save them,

even it was an equal unknown

that was trying to kill them.

If there is someone up there trying

to kill us the big question is;

Why are we not worth saving?

Would it be so easy to dispose

of us all in on e massive gesture,

like in "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy",

or would it be more adventurous

to come here and put us out of

our misery one by one,

with blows to the head,

right out of Poe's

"Narrative Of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket"?

Fuck, that story really scared

the hell out of me for some reason,

I'll never get that picture out of

my head.

MCC