Thanks to Rusty Barnes for putting up a story of mine on NIGHT TRAIN
HERE
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
BEAR HUNTING
This story was originally published online on Gloom Cupboard.
BEAR HUNTING
I drive my taxi to Mr. Cooper’s house. 1436 N. Olsen. Mr. Cooper takes my taxi once a week. The difficult thing about Mr. Cooper is the fact that he’s 98 years old. He’s about 5 feet 3 and narrow as a bird in his gray cotton pants and blue flannel. He uses an aluminum walker and watching him move is like watching the seasons change.
I can’t believe it’s October already.
In tired agony Mr. Cooper climbs into the front seat of the cab and gets as comfortable as possible on his frail old bones. His hands are twisted red claws and his left twitches sometimes and when it does he brings it up to his breast pocket. In his pocket lives a bottle of prescription medication and when he feels the bottle he is reassured and his hand lowers calmly back to his lap.
It’s 11 a.m. and the Tucson skies are blue and warm.
“Morning Mr. Cooper,” I say. “How are you?”
“Fair to middlin,” he says. “Nice weather isn’t it?”
“Better than Minnesota?” I say.
Mr. Cooper was a high school math teacher in Minnesota in his younger days. His wife died many years ago.
"I lived in Minnesota for 65 years,” he says.
I pull out of the driveway and tool through the old man’s neighborhood. It’s one of those rare Tucson neighborhoods that doesn’t pretend to care for the typical architecture and color scheme of a desert town. There is no puppy-shit stucco, no lonely cacti, no rock gardens, no ocotillo fences, no terra cotta tiles, no courtyards. Instead, simple red brick houses ho-hum along gently curving streets. The houses have small tidy yards covered in real honest-to-goodness grass, bordered by miniature white painted fences and decorated with an American flag, a fake deer and a birdbath.
I stop the cab at a stop sign and Mr. Cooper and I watch a toddler walking down the side of the road. All he has on is a pair of diapers. The road is otherwise deserted. The fact that he’s a boy is apparent in the square wobble of his strut, the tousled hair, the fat little arms at the ready.
I pull up slowly beside him. He scowls at me through the sun.
“Hello there,” I say.
He keeps walking. He’s determined to get somewhere. I slowly inch along hanging my arm out the window. Mr. Cooper strains to look.
“What’s your name?”
“Ranny,” he says in a little boy voice, growling with irritation.
“Where’s your mom, Randy?”
“Don’t know,” he says.
“Where’s your dad?”
He looks at me as if I’m wasting his time.
“Don’t know,” he says.
“Aren’t you scared to be out here by yourself?” I say.
“Nope.”
“Where do you live?” I say, looking around for any sign of a parent. He narrows his eyes.
“Don’t know,” he says. He’s wise to me. It’s taken him an hour to break out of the house and he isn’t about to be taken back home so easy.
Mr. Cooper leans toward me, listening to every word. He has a huge grin on his wrinkled face.
“Where are you going?” I say to the kid.
“Goin’ bear huntin,” he says.
“Bear hunting?”
“Yup.”
“What?” Mr. Cooper says. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s going bear hunting,” I say.
“I think you forgot your gun,” I say. “What are you going to kill the bears with?”
He stops walking. I stop the cab. He looks at me as if he’s studying the theory of relativity. Then he shrugs and keeps walking.
“Widda a rock,” he says.
“A rock?” I say. “How far can you throw a rock?”
He leans down and with his tiny chubby hand picks up a small rock from the side of the road. He rears back and with the whole of his 40 pound, 3 foot tall frame, hurls it toward the horizon. The rock sails about 5 feet and lands quietly. He looks at me to judge my astonishment.
“Good one,” I say. He dusts his hands together in satisfaction and keeps walking.
“You know,” I say. “I think I saw a bear up around this next corner, so you better be careful.”
He stops again and looks up at me. His eyes are wide as an animal’s and his mouth is hanging open. Mr. Cooper laughs his old man’s tenor laugh and thumps his skinny knee. I wink at him.
Then we hear a woman shrieking.
“RANDY! RANDY! RAAANDYY!!”
She runs into the road, feathers flying, and swoops him off his feet. She glares at me.
“What are you doing out here, honey?” she says to him, hugging him and rocking him side to side. He looks at me as if I was responsible for everything.
“He was going bear hunting,” I say.
She doesn’t respond, just turns and races back to her house with Randy in her arms.
I drive on.
Mr. Cooper has a smile on his face all the way to the grocery store. The grocery store is the only place Mr. Cooper ever goes.
When I pull up to the grocery store I get out and get Mr. Cooper’s walker out of the back seat and open his door and stand the walker there for him. He grips the walker with his gnarled red hands and stands up and slowly heads for the store’s front door.
“Watch out for bears,” I say.
“Will do,” he says.
One time a few weeks ago I was waiting for Mr. Cooper to come out of the store, and I had to go to the bathroom, and so I left the cab and went inside. Inside I saw him standing with his walker which had a little basket hooked onto it; he was gazing at the deli with its hot yellow lights and good greasy smells. He looked carefully and happily at all the foods, the brown and crispy fried chicken and the pink ham and black and pink roast beef and the red and orange and green salads. He stood there and watched all the people pick out their favorites, nodding in affirmation each time. Mr. Cooper always spends at least 30 minutes in the store, and he always comes out with the same thing: a small sack containing a box of saltine crackers and a quart of skim milk.
Today I watch him inch across the walkway and finally disappear inside the grocery store. The meter clicks higher as I wait in the sun. Somewhere out there is a bear with Mr. Cooper’s name on it, and one with my name too. Another cab comes up behind me, so I turn my hazard lights on. The lights blink and blink until he gets the message and drives around me.
BEAR HUNTING
I drive my taxi to Mr. Cooper’s house. 1436 N. Olsen. Mr. Cooper takes my taxi once a week. The difficult thing about Mr. Cooper is the fact that he’s 98 years old. He’s about 5 feet 3 and narrow as a bird in his gray cotton pants and blue flannel. He uses an aluminum walker and watching him move is like watching the seasons change.
I can’t believe it’s October already.
In tired agony Mr. Cooper climbs into the front seat of the cab and gets as comfortable as possible on his frail old bones. His hands are twisted red claws and his left twitches sometimes and when it does he brings it up to his breast pocket. In his pocket lives a bottle of prescription medication and when he feels the bottle he is reassured and his hand lowers calmly back to his lap.
It’s 11 a.m. and the Tucson skies are blue and warm.
“Morning Mr. Cooper,” I say. “How are you?”
“Fair to middlin,” he says. “Nice weather isn’t it?”
“Better than Minnesota?” I say.
Mr. Cooper was a high school math teacher in Minnesota in his younger days. His wife died many years ago.
"I lived in Minnesota for 65 years,” he says.
I pull out of the driveway and tool through the old man’s neighborhood. It’s one of those rare Tucson neighborhoods that doesn’t pretend to care for the typical architecture and color scheme of a desert town. There is no puppy-shit stucco, no lonely cacti, no rock gardens, no ocotillo fences, no terra cotta tiles, no courtyards. Instead, simple red brick houses ho-hum along gently curving streets. The houses have small tidy yards covered in real honest-to-goodness grass, bordered by miniature white painted fences and decorated with an American flag, a fake deer and a birdbath.
I stop the cab at a stop sign and Mr. Cooper and I watch a toddler walking down the side of the road. All he has on is a pair of diapers. The road is otherwise deserted. The fact that he’s a boy is apparent in the square wobble of his strut, the tousled hair, the fat little arms at the ready.
I pull up slowly beside him. He scowls at me through the sun.
“Hello there,” I say.
He keeps walking. He’s determined to get somewhere. I slowly inch along hanging my arm out the window. Mr. Cooper strains to look.
“What’s your name?”
“Ranny,” he says in a little boy voice, growling with irritation.
“Where’s your mom, Randy?”
“Don’t know,” he says.
“Where’s your dad?”
He looks at me as if I’m wasting his time.
“Don’t know,” he says.
“Aren’t you scared to be out here by yourself?” I say.
“Nope.”
“Where do you live?” I say, looking around for any sign of a parent. He narrows his eyes.
“Don’t know,” he says. He’s wise to me. It’s taken him an hour to break out of the house and he isn’t about to be taken back home so easy.
Mr. Cooper leans toward me, listening to every word. He has a huge grin on his wrinkled face.
“Where are you going?” I say to the kid.
“Goin’ bear huntin,” he says.
“Bear hunting?”
“Yup.”
“What?” Mr. Cooper says. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s going bear hunting,” I say.
“I think you forgot your gun,” I say. “What are you going to kill the bears with?”
He stops walking. I stop the cab. He looks at me as if he’s studying the theory of relativity. Then he shrugs and keeps walking.
“Widda a rock,” he says.
“A rock?” I say. “How far can you throw a rock?”
He leans down and with his tiny chubby hand picks up a small rock from the side of the road. He rears back and with the whole of his 40 pound, 3 foot tall frame, hurls it toward the horizon. The rock sails about 5 feet and lands quietly. He looks at me to judge my astonishment.
“Good one,” I say. He dusts his hands together in satisfaction and keeps walking.
“You know,” I say. “I think I saw a bear up around this next corner, so you better be careful.”
He stops again and looks up at me. His eyes are wide as an animal’s and his mouth is hanging open. Mr. Cooper laughs his old man’s tenor laugh and thumps his skinny knee. I wink at him.
Then we hear a woman shrieking.
“RANDY! RANDY! RAAANDYY!!”
She runs into the road, feathers flying, and swoops him off his feet. She glares at me.
“What are you doing out here, honey?” she says to him, hugging him and rocking him side to side. He looks at me as if I was responsible for everything.
“He was going bear hunting,” I say.
She doesn’t respond, just turns and races back to her house with Randy in her arms.
I drive on.
Mr. Cooper has a smile on his face all the way to the grocery store. The grocery store is the only place Mr. Cooper ever goes.
When I pull up to the grocery store I get out and get Mr. Cooper’s walker out of the back seat and open his door and stand the walker there for him. He grips the walker with his gnarled red hands and stands up and slowly heads for the store’s front door.
“Watch out for bears,” I say.
“Will do,” he says.
One time a few weeks ago I was waiting for Mr. Cooper to come out of the store, and I had to go to the bathroom, and so I left the cab and went inside. Inside I saw him standing with his walker which had a little basket hooked onto it; he was gazing at the deli with its hot yellow lights and good greasy smells. He looked carefully and happily at all the foods, the brown and crispy fried chicken and the pink ham and black and pink roast beef and the red and orange and green salads. He stood there and watched all the people pick out their favorites, nodding in affirmation each time. Mr. Cooper always spends at least 30 minutes in the store, and he always comes out with the same thing: a small sack containing a box of saltine crackers and a quart of skim milk.
Today I watch him inch across the walkway and finally disappear inside the grocery store. The meter clicks higher as I wait in the sun. Somewhere out there is a bear with Mr. Cooper’s name on it, and one with my name too. Another cab comes up behind me, so I turn my hazard lights on. The lights blink and blink until he gets the message and drives around me.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
PRETENTIOUS COMMENT OF THE WEEK
"I could be curing cancer or colonizing Mars right now. Instead, i write books and stuff."
Lily Hoang on HTML GIANT
Lily Hoang on HTML GIANT
Friday, March 4, 2011
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
MY FIRST FULL LENGTH BOOK
FEBRUARY 2010
My first full length book of poetry is out from Interior Noise Press. The book is 124 pages and spans 10 years, with my artwork on the cover. It includes poems that have previously appeared in places like Atlanta Review, Rattle, Gutter Eloquence, The Ledge, Hanging Loose, Nerve Cowboy, Nimrod and River Styx.
All of the links to the right go to my work on the net.
Below are some reviews and interviews:
BOLD MONKEY
PEOPLE REVIEWS
CRAFTY GREEN POET
ZYGOTE IN MY RADIO
SHOOTS AND VINES
BIG OTHER
HTML GIANT
And here are a few samples:
YOU CAN'T GET AWAY FROM NATURE
She used to categorize her orgasms
as flowers:
a rose was the very best,
then lilac, daffodil, daisy...
This sounds dandy
except mine was not the little joy
of a hummingbird
poking his beak into a larkspur,
no, I worked
for those orgasms:
I had to start from scratch,
undoing her botany
and everything else she'd been taught,
easing it up
through the hardpan,
hauling the water,
performing feats of endurance
with tongue or hand.
I've sweated less working peat into the ground
with a shovel.
One hot day I explained to her
the type of flower she had
was due to the length of my
servitude down there,
and I'd rather settle
for a dandelion
than dislocate an elbow.
We split up after that.
I don't know what kind of farmer
she finally landed.
You can't get away from nature.
Two months later
I met a biker chick
who grew her own weed.
*
HOT IRON
She uses a flat hot iron
to straighten her hair.
It has a porcelain handle
and burning platypus jaws
and each morning she gets up
and plugs it in the wall.
You can smell it getting hot.
Her hair is golden-
rod laughing, but her dad
told her she was ugly
and her hair was too curly
every god damned day.
It's a delicate operation:
to change who you are
without burning your scalp.
It's been eleven years
since she's seen him, calls
another country home now
but she still gets up
and plugs in her hot iron
every morning. It's ready
when your spit sizzles.
*
BETWEEN US AND IT
I'm a white American and she's Mexican
but we're trying to make it work.
We've moved in together.
There's a dumpster outside our bedroom window
15 feet away,
a cement block wall
between us and it.
The dumpster belongs to the other apartment building,
the last of the expensive white ones
before it turns Mexican.
At night we are startled
by people throwing things
into the dumpster.
The noises are sudden and vicious, like thunder
or war, as if they are so proud,
as if it was the surest thing in the world
to be throwing a way a microwave at midnight.
Later in the night
we hear the Mexicans
taking things out of the dumpsters
to fix and resell.
The nights are hot in the desert in the summer
and in our sweaty sleep
the blanket on the bed gets pushed
and mashed together
between us.
We call it "the border".
Even on the hottest nights we can't
toss it away.
*
THE BELL
There was a little bell on the boss's desk
at the collection agency
where we were paid
to telephone people
and make them feel like dog crap.
It was a bell like on a hotel counter
when the clerk's gone.
When a collector received a credit card payment
it was procedure to stand up from the little desk
and walk across the room
past all the others sitting
at their own little desks
and to place the payment slip
in the box on the boss's desk
and to tap the top
of the little bell.
The bell was intended to make us jealous
and mindlessly competitive
like posting everyone's totals
on the wall in big red numbers:
it dug into our hamster brains
and we worked harder and harder
to make the world miserable,
to make ourselves miserable.
We told mothers their sons
were losers
and we told grandmothers if they didn't
pay their bills before they died
they'd go to hell
and their families would never forgive them.
And that little bell
kept dinging
and our mouths watered
for affection.
*
HOT AIR BALLOON RIDE
In that five-foot-wide four-foot-deep basket
the pilot and his wife argued
for the whole forty five minutes.
It was just the four of us:
Josie and I pressed against
the thin wall of the basket
roped our fingers together and looked
as far away as we could.
The farms were laid out all around
like a sheet of stamps.
The pilot made the fire roar
to drown out the sound of their angry voices
and in this way the fuel
was spent early.
We were all sweating.
This is what they do:
travel from town to town
hauling that huge balloon
unrolling it and rolling it back up
for twenty years.
On the way back to earth
we barely missed some power lines
and descended into a herd
of scattering cows.
The woman walked across the pasture crying.
The man drew out
a lukewarm bottle of champagne
popped it
and filled our plastic glasses.
He made an apology for a toast
and then asked if we wanted a photo taken
for five bucks.
*
TONYA WEISS
She's seventeen years old
and at midnight
she falls through the high school gym skylight
into the dark
like a hard swallow.
The next morning
she is found
on the parquet floor-
the same floor
where the cheerleaders dance
at home games
where we play dodge ball
like killers
where we do wind sprints
until our guts heave.
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