I flipped the lever on the side. It started like an engine.

I typed my first sentence ever, in capitals:

HERE WE GO.

I liked the feel of it. The bricks around me gave the words heavy acoustics. I didn’t want to start out by copying the journals. I had never written them for others to read. I wasn’t some fucking hungry young writer on the road. Instead I just wrote things that came into my head right there. I made many mistakes. For awhile I practiced the keys, finding the quickest ways to correctly write a sentence. Then I began my first short story. It was about a loser waking up in a stripper’s hotel room, his tongue in the ashtray. It went on for about four pages. It was magic. It wasn’t like handwriting. I was actually there in that hotel room. I saw the whole scene through the black keys. I had escaped my life and lived in a better world of better tragedy without the senselessness. I created the sky and the clocks, the curves of her body and the universe, molecule by molecule. I realized I could live forever through doing this. It was purely beautiful. I finished the story. She dropped him off at a bus stop and drove to the night club. He had nine hours to sit there.

I sat and typed poems, poems for the years long since wasted. I remember those poems, the life they gave. Some of them were dark ones about Helena, about the nature of women. Mostly they dealt with the people and the jobs and the nights without escape, the days which promised nothing. The words made me see things differently, more clearly. I wrote poems about places and people and jobs and parks and dogs and sunlight and children and handguns and everything.

I needed nothing else from that point onward. I needed a room, some caffeine and a typewriter. I typed furiously, sweating. I couldn’t roll the next sheet through fast enough. I’d never felt so useful. It was happening, thundering away, bending the walls downward. I sat there all night and typed to my music. Angels circled above and around my room, protecting me, allowing me to move and move. I was in love. It was all action. It was all mine.

I sat back and rested. I had a thick pile of pages piled next to the machine. I stretched out and looked at the clock: 6:23 p.m. I jumped out of the chair and ran to the phone. I’d missed nearly two and a half hours of work. I was hoping that I didn’t get Rob. I hated Rob. A different manager answered. I played it dumb, asked him if I was supposed to work today. He didn’t really know for sure. He’d just go check the schedule.

​“Yesiree. Supposed to be here at four.”

​“Shit. I’m on my way.”

​“Take your time. Not like you haven’t already.”

I had to be graceful. He could have been an asshole about it.

I walked to work every day because it was only eight blocks. Only this time I was armed. I had the pages I had written in my backpack and they were heavy with substance. I read my things on my break. I had typed out all of it. I was proud. I watched the people outside walking with each other, with their spouses to see a movie, with their kids and their tucked in shirts and pressed pants and perfect hair. I finally felt like I had one over on them. I had finally discovered an edge.

By the time I closed I was dead tired. I wanted to write but I was tired. I felt young again. I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since Manhattan. I fell back across the mattress and read from the pages until my eyes blurred and I fell asleep, long and blue and without dream.

complacency

capitulation

the breaking of hours

the death of sparrows

and failure

and victory

the resignation

to structure within

the heart

the relegation of soul

to dull reality

forced to listen to

the opinions of others

to get from A to B

forced behind the

teeth of angry mouths

at work or at home

passively dying by the

minutes

without a second thought

or the trace of concern

the absence of words

the absence of laughter

the absence of release

the beating

heart

lessened

of

blood.

I sipped coffee and looked out the curtain. The Strip pulsed and flashed, and it undulated with the idea of Vegas beneath it. Lucy walked over and rested her chin on my leg. I leashed her and we sneaked out. My head was throbbing mildly. Should have been worse. Lucy did what she had to do. I watched the night of Vegas. I was a married man. A cop on a mountain bike was chasing two skaters. Limos rolled up and emptied. Back upstairs I drank my coffee and watched the street again.

A light tapping came from their suite, and then stopped. I walked over and opened the door. Their light was on, so I walked in and closed it quietly. Amanda was in the bathroom. Billy sat by the window in front of the hot tub, “Well, this is bullshit. 8:30 p.m.”

“Morning for Vegas. Weeknights don’t count here. How’s your head?”

“I’m not thinking about it. But it’s fucked. Still hitting the town.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Amanda came out. I smiled at her, “It…is…ALIVE.”

She laughed, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Look at it this way,” he said, “we’d be a lot worse off if we hadn’t slept past sunset. I’m actually alright, considering my blood is 93 percent vodka right now.”

Amanda fell across the bed, “I’m not giving in, we’re in Vegas.” She screamed from the bed: “SISTER! Get your ass up!” She put her head under the pillow, “I would go get her, but that involves motor skills.”

The door pushed open and Lucy came in and jumped on the bed. Amanda talked to her from under the pillow, “Lucy Luce!”

Lucy pounced on her and nuzzled her head under the pillow.

“That’s right, Lucy,” I said, “give her big kisses.” Billy smiled.

Christine walked in drying her hair and holding a cup of coffee, “Hey fags, we hitting the town or what?”

I looked at them, “Exactly.”

She walked over and kissed me, “Morning, husband.”

“Hi, Mama.”

Amanda talked to her from under the pillow, “How are you not hungover?”

“Not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”

Billy looked over at the hot tub, “Haven’t even used it yet.”

“Tomorrow, Annie,” Amanda snapped. I laughed. Christine handed me the coffee. “Papi?”

I took a sip and handed it back. Billy looked at me, “Right now it’s Papi. You’ll be Annie in seven years.”

“Bullshit.”

He walked over and slapped Amanda on her ass. She shrieked. It had been awhile.

“Fucking pervert,” she said.

I grabbed Christine’s hand, “I’m taking the old lady down for espresso and a muffin. Back in awhile. Watch Lucy and get your asses ready.” I squeezed her hand. She finished putting her hair back in our room and we walked out. We heard Amanda raise her voice: “I can’t believe you DID THAT! What’s gotten into you?!”

We walked. Christine sighed, “Great. They’re going to be fighting now.”

“Those two are about to fuck. And those two need to fuck.”

“Oh?”

I caught the vibe from him. He’s hungover, away from his problems, in Vegas. He’s a man, and he’s burned out on being passive with her, and she’s just as burned on it as he is.”

We waited by the elevator. She shook her head, “You’re wrong, Sigmund. I know my sister. You think you’re so smart,” she jabbed my stomach. The elevator opened. It was empty. We stepped in. She beat me to the lobby button, “Trust me, Papi, she’s freaking out right now.”

I pressed the next floor down. It stopped and I pulled her out, hit the up arrow and folded my hands in wait. She laughed, “Yes?”

“I’ll make a bet with you. If they’re not fucking, right now, I’ll go down on you on the balcony.”

“And if they are?”

“Then I’ll go down on you on the balcony.”

The door opened. We stepped in and went back up. She folded her arms, “I like the odds in this town.”

We walked to the door, keyed in our side, and I hushed Lucy right away. Not that I had to. Amanda was screaming over the racket of the headboard and frame: “HOLY SHIT! THAT’S THE SPOT! YOU’RE FUCKING HITTING IT! OH MY GOD FUCK ME BABY! OH FUCK!”

Christine’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth. I waved to Lucy and we left like thieves. I stared ahead, “You were right, she’s freaking out.” I pressed the button and we stepped back in. She looked at the doors as we started down, “Wow. He was really giving it to her.”

“He’s had enough sexless bullshit. I don’t blame him.”

She leaned into me, “I’m so fucking hungover it’s insane.”

Nebraska. Interstate diner. Feels like a bad song. Kid behind the counter has glasses even thicker than mine. Greasy little prick's probably the one who called the cop. I paid for my coffee. I paid. Man like me gets the dick in public no matter where I go. The beard and the age, the backpack. I get it. No point in dancing around the obvious.

The little shit pile glances at the cop then talks at me while he wipes down the counter, "Cold as a fuck out there, mister. You got a place to stay?"

"I'll be alright."

"Close in 15," the cop says. Fat piece of fuck, this one, "And we can't have you lurking around here, buddy. Jail's closed for the night, too, just so you know."

He nods at the human shit behind the counter, smiles at him, walks out. Car door closes. He sits there. He'll be sitting out there in 15, too. The kid walks in back. Out the window there's a full, crisp moon, but it ain't no moon, it's a fuckin' burden. Time blurs. I'm sick. All my people are dead. The kid flips the sign in the window around and opens the door, stares at the fuckin' floor and waits for me to go.

A tan or pale woman sleeping nude.

Sunlight in the eyes of my dog.

A city at night reflected in a short, strong glass of whiskey and coke.

A page or screen being filled with words.

A book almost read.

A book yet to be written.

Words that will remain.

I hit the bank and got the cash, drove to the house and carried everything to the place downstairs. The hotel last night was a bitch, literally. This couple was going at it all night, yelling next door, fighting, the door slamming shut, flying open, on and on until 5 a.m. The entire motel smelled liked weed, which was fine, it was legal here now, but for someone like me, a once-a-year stoner at best, I hadn’t made friends with the smell, I couldn’t embrace the burning tire odor. Dog shit all over the back lot of the motel, garbage strewn in front of the doors.

I got us fully moved in, fed the boy and stood in the shower, the high and perfect setting on the spout cleaning my flesh, my thoughts on the last month, and last night’s voices of domestic violence running off my shoulders and into the drain:

“BITCH, YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR MONEY AT! AH PAID THE MOTHERFUCKER SO HE WOULDN'T TAKE YO ASS TO COURT!”

“OH, FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! I’M THE ONE MAKIN’ THE FUCKIN’ MONEY FO THE ROOM! YOU SUPPOSE TO BE THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ MAN!”

The slamming door, then another one of her screams:

“WHERE MY LIGHTER AT?!”

I felt the water move down my skin, and the last year of being out in the wind moved with it. I thought about the last book tour, my Australian girl, my diamond, really, the one who flew over and traveled the coast with me down California from Washington, to Vegas, to San Diego, to her departing flight from LAX. Six weeks of happiness, six weeks of beauty slated not to last, but to be ripped and torn from me, from her. We were the ghosts of each other now, she moved on and I moved on, which was healthy, it was essential. I counted back to the year when the word first found me with its tattoo, with its permanent mark. I was a young man, a cook in Tempe, my fingers weeping into the keys of my first typewriter, the bricks of the room bringing Hell onto the page, the reckoning of worth, the strength in pure solitude. As the water covered me there, I rested my foot back on the stone, and I felt the words start to grip me again, I felt the sentences strengthen, I felt the wind of words and the wind was the world, it reached from Mombasa to Montezuma, from the depths of Mars to mirror the Moon and flow back to Earth. We were all carbon, and the universe was carbon, there was nothing separate between us. I looked down at the floor unblinking, the water falling from my brow, and I remembered everything and nothing, and I remembered the loving eyes of my angel dog, Meg, my Border Collie-Blue Heeler girl, her electric soul and her bones in the ground. It would soon be four years since she left this place, since she left Chico and me behind to sift through all the things she knew, the things she took with her. I thought about the faces of the past, the ignorant faces on the jobs, the teeth of them, the look of them because they knew I hated them, they knew I didn’t share their fears, and they pawned me off to insanity.

I shook off the thoughts and killed the water. I dried myself and let the sorrow of those days go into the towel, the anger of them. Chico nosed his way into the bathroom and looked up at me, his mouth full of food, and I laughed.

My heart fell back against my spine, its blood running with the wolves of my regret.

It started to rain. I walked up Hawthorne with no jacket. It was getting windy and frozen out there. I looked up. The clouds were moving in. I watched the sky bleed its grey blood. The clouds were grinning. They had no tolerance for life. They simply bled where they told themselves to. I reached up and felt my hair and my face, the lines about the sockets. My bones were back there, blocks away in her store and I was powerless, stuck in Portland with no coat, no money, no love. A horn honked and I jumped in.

The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk ’80s bubblegum resurrections. The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfection. I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.

Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair. Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground, the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came, her hair in her face, her perfections hard at their tips. I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.   

Author note:

When Prose. presented the opportunity for me and my dog to go on tour for winter, to find writers and readers with a grassroots, gasoline-fueled literary mission, two words ran across my mind in scrolling neon red letters against a blackboard of subtle space junk: Hell, yes.

To ride along, follow the tour's hashtag above.

__________________________

Breaking the chains.

Arizona.

Prescott, The Birdcage.

Sitting here glazed over and gazing around the bar

thinking about strictures

discipline

sitting here alone

beneath the moose head,

deer head,

antelope head,

even a ram's head

the miles to back home

ending in hard rain

sitting here, sipping the dream

in the desert

watching the night around me break itself down and push

toward business incline

push toward live music

and the singing of old

registers

push toward hope and

drunkenness

and a night of

luck,

defeat,

and prostration

sitting here thinking about

the words

thinking

about being a pimp

for Prose.

an envoy

a mission so pure

for our kind

the words leaking across

the tabletops, bar tops,

desk tops

and the faces of

cell phones

a mission strong and

without fail

the days of

streaming consciousness

creating a night sky

refulgent with stars

shaped

by words.

Night time. Hotel, small mountain town.

thinking about Whiskey Row

coffee

how in the day

you break a sweat

and in the night

you see your breath under

a clear, white moon.

This morning, walking the

town square around the row, the courthouse

my dog tracking something

under a spine shaped

cloud offsetting an otherwise perfect sky.

cobalt.

The classically trained paragraphs cross over

sloppy riffs of hope in my head

while I walk the boy around the corners

around the cafes

around the homeless couples

and the shag-haired artists with

tattoos on their fingers.

All of it spills over into the nights

here, when you think you should be back out there

and you will

but not while the

heater hums and warms the

room

and not while the

nights ahead of this one

wait with such

ease

and

allure.