Another Wild Ass Tale

Lukretia had the oddest passtime of anyone I'd met in Singapore. 

By herself, she would hang out in the bars of Clark Quay or Robertson Walk, looking demure and lonely, and in one of her form fitting silk baju kebaya, very very hot. Sure enough a guy would always slip into the seat beside her, start a conversation, buy her a drink, and then begin exploring how he could get her off her bar stool and into bed. 

At some point in every conversation, she would ask if the guy was married. If he said no, she would dismiss him immediately and excuse herself at the first opportunity. If he said yes, she would smile, show intense interest in his eyes, in his words, in everything about him. She'd also take the silk scarf off her lap to reveal a remarkably sculpted thigh through the side slit of her elegant sarong.

She would not suggest they do anything that evening, but she would get his handphone number, and promise to call --- which she always did, the very next evening. 

On the phone Lukretia would flirt without shame, always finding the opportunity to describe how little she was wearing, and how much she wanted to be in the man's company. On another occasion she would ask about his job, about his residence, and then, curiously, about his wife. Eventually, she would ask to meet in the oyster bar at the Pan Pacific Hotel, or if the fellow was the sporting type, in the famous orchid section of the botanic garden, at his convenience.

One thing would always lead to another, and before the guy could control himself, he had met her several times in various places, and would be agreeing to do so yet again, this time early one morning at Harbourfront, to board a ferry for the one-hour trip over to Batam, the nearby Indonesian isle of flagrant vice and deception.

And that's where Lukretia would finally push in the daggers, and pull her prey's pelvis out of his fleshy loins.

For it was to Batam that she would also invite each would be lover's wife, who would be waiting at an appointed spot just as he and Lukretia had exited the ferry and walked through immigration. There she would walk away from the fiery wife and the satayed man, with a quick turn and impish smile, leaving the two of them to their willies.

Now how did I get to know this?

Swimming the Edge

East Eden Condo. I'm standing above the pool. It's Tuesday night, 9pm, and all seems well in the world.

I survey the sights: the empty concrete poolside, bright lights under the glass-clear water are spaced along the kidney-shaped edge about every 5 meters. The condo clubhouse lies to the west, forty-lengths and a hop skip and jump straight ahead, while four-stories of hen-box-like apartments stand to my right, on the south side, with about 60 percent displaying a lit-up living room. September's cavernous sky, partially clouded over, looms above.

And my little sis and brother-in-law are on the opposite side of this world, I think to myself. And if my calculations are correct, they've just boarded their transcontinental flight in Boston and are finally heading for a destination they'd not dreamed possible until they'd gotten that inheritance money.

I dive in. Suddenly awash in the wet brightness, I realize that drowning is just a conked head away.

But not tonight, not here, not me. Peace.

Thirty laps later, I emerge to the pool's edge, feeling strong, out of breath just enough to be happy. That's when I notice: the old Chinese couple in the ground-floor place on the end are both standing staring at something, probably their tube. They seem transfixed, bathed under ceiling-lamp fluorescence. Their next-door neighbor, an attractive Australian lady, is standing on her veranda hanging clothes in the darkness, silhouetted against the yellow light of her place.

I try to swim the length of the pool underwater, popping up three-quarters of the way across. I look to the apartment directly to my right, and notice that the young Malay couple with the three little kids is also standing in their living room. The guy moves, and appears to be naked. No wonder they have so many kids, I think.

I duck under and swim out of range, feeling weightless and worry free back beneath the surface. I imagine how much they will love taking an evening dip --- after arriving from the East Coast of the USA, two nights from now.

I bob up at the pool's far end, then I knock my palm against the side of my head, hoping to clear my right ear. There I get an 80 percent view of our building, and notice that nearly all the apartments now have the living room lights on. I can even see the heads of the Canadian teachers who live just above the Malay couple; they, too, seem to be standing looking at their TV.

I look across the breadth of the building. Yep, almost all the lights are on now. Dinner over, TV time, I guess.

I quickly swim back to the other end, then pull myself from the comfort zone, walk to the plastic deck chair where I've left my towel, keys, T-shirt and slippers, and dry off. Standing there for several minutes, I observe the condo block on that the east end of the pool. Every living room of each apartment on the ground floor in that building is also lit up. I see a Chinese mother and her two daughters in one, the young Indian guy who competes with me for pool space in the next, and at the end, the Japanese family I've bowed to on occasion. All seem to be watching TV.

Thank God I've done away with that one bad habit, I think.

I gather my things and walk around the end of my building, pass the parked cars, but before entering the stairwell, notice for the first time today an A4-sized paper taped to the glass pane of my block's outside door. It includes a photocopied snapshot of a large monkey. Beneath it are these words:

Danger! Beware of Monkeys! The Management would like to inform that monkeys are coming to our estate on a frequent basis.  We would like to urge all residents not to feed the monkeys and to take necessary precautions against them. Your attention and cooperation in the above matter is appreciated. Thank you.

Monkeys? I wonder. Can they really be so dangerous?

Beneath that message is a circular stamp of light blue ink. Within the circle I note today's date, listed in Singapore style, with the day first, then the month, then the year: 11-9-2001.

Stoned

Sometime late in the afternoon.

Raj surveyed the city.  Emptiness resonated back to his 7th-story Robson Heights perch.

The middle of civilization, he thought. The towers, the mosque, UMNO, Dayabumi, Maybank. And the Royal Palace downhill from the Chinese graveyard.

All for what? And at what cost?

He turned from the veranda. Put his knees on the marble floor. He emptied the desk drawer he'd removed earlier and listed the contents:

a dozen keys on a steel ring

three spools of cellophane 

Mongolian Cards

a ruler
a pink guitar pick

EastPower AAA batteries

two tube-like 5" flashlights

the Pioneer remote

a steel triangle

the stapler

Cinderella pen
plastic rosary beads, white

two egg maracas

 Zigzag rolling papers
the pewter letter opener

Better to be focused. No use contemplating the demand for payment of back taxes, the pile up at work, the indifference of the grown children, the brutal change of heart.

Then she came home, and again they went through the motions, had the empty exchange. And out she went again. In a manner neither of them had expected.

When it was done, Raj paced the room for five minutes, and concluded there was no other way. He walked to the front balcony, noted the call of the azan, observed Genting's lights above the city.

Then he bent down in a wrestler's posture, came to grips with granite Ganesa, and took a deep breath. In an instant he'd lifted the statue onto the stool, and then three-feet higher, onto the balcony's four-inch wide rail.

He stood back to contemplate his labor. That was when pitched voices could be heard rising up from below, and an emergency siren was coming in from the distance.

They're in Brickfields, he thought.

He took hold of the neatly cut end of a meter-length clothesline chord. The frayed end had already been secured through the trunk of the elephant god. Lifting his right foot, Raj tied the loose end around his ankle.

Then in a measured jump, he hopped onto the railing's narrow surface, taking care that the statue didn't list.

The stone was well fixed.

In another instant, Raj turned his eyes up toward the heavens above, away from the voices gathering below, away from the world he'd encountered, away from her body there beneath his swaying feet--- and he gave his stone-cold god a swift sharp shove.

The Mantra

He made a mental list: Lula, Anica, Diana, Lisa, Suzana and Bela --- those from his youth in Viana do Castelo.

Then came the ones from his university days in Coimbra and Porto: Pamela, Camila, Alicia, and Margarita, oh yes, and Isabel.

And from his year-long residency in Angola: Eneida and Renata, Mariam and Dulce.

From his three-year stay in Lisboa there was Nanette, Cynthia, Maria Luisa and Gwyneth.

From the extended stay in Ireland: Gillian. And the girl who played violin, Christy.

To the posting in Jakarta: Jane, Dzulaika and, for a short time, Azi.

To the apartment in Paris, Elin, and Zhana, then to the house above Geneva, Zarina, and to the homes in the Riviera: Olivia, and of course, Meilyn.

These were the names he could remember, the names he could put with faces, with complexions and hair styles and figures, from tall and thin to short and buxom, those with sinewy limbs, or those who seemed to have flanks of pillow white softness or of brown sugar gristle. Those who were afraid of chickens or not afraid of anything. Those who loved beer or pharmaceuticals or who loved writing poetry. Those he had at first shared a dance with on a summer night in a village festival or a sleeping bag on a moonlit hillock above a rocky beach. The ones with whom he'd hidden in a barn or made happy then unhappy in a tour of family-run pousadas or look-alike 5-star hotels, the ones he'd been engaged to or broken an earlier commitment to by having an affair with.

These were the ones he could remember.

But as for the ones he had loved, truly loved. He stared into the blankness of the cracked ceiling above his bed, he sniffed as if to search for a lingering scent from a neckline or waistline or a kiss. He looked up and down, following the thought toward the edge of his own gown along dark blue veins and over the wrinkles on the back of his hand.

But he only found coughing, televised noise and the smell of institutional cleanser. The smell of his own nearby latrine and the nurses who weren't interested.

So he closed his eyes and repeated the mantra.

To Ride a Bus (with pangs of conscience)

I only really saw her from my left eye, the same one that swelled shut after I got punched and pushed off the city bus. How could such a thing ever happen?

It all started innocently enough. A long day at the office. A short wait at the crowded bus stop. A seat, luckily, by the door mid-bus. And at the stop after I'd gotten on, without me even taking note, she had boarded and taken a seat beside me. In post-work stupor, it took a few minutes for me to see anything. But slowly peripheral vision began working its wonders: there beside me was a petite, smartly coiffed young lady in a seriously-mini black skirt.

I held my briefcase in my lap, and had no intentions other than getting home and going for a jog with my better half. I looked out the window and inside passing cars, took interest in a suave young man sitting behind the wheel of a slick Mercedes convertible, glanced at my own reflection, checked my cellphone.

Then I sensed it: the shortness of my neighbor's skirt, the slight rubbing of our shoulders, the tinge of Givenchy or another expensive scent. My left eye scanned as best it could the figure at my side. 30s-something. Well endowed for a short person, neat in a collared white cotton top. Her hair was dark, short, cut in what I've heard referred to as a slope fringe.

Then something took me by surprise. The small tanned thighs that had been discreetly pretzeling each other opened slowly, and one was laid firmly alongside my pant leg.

This new configuration was felt more than visible to either of my eyes. I tried to ignore it and look straight ahead. In fact, I took care NOT to look. But as the bus stopped momentarily and filled with more passengers, my seat-mate seemed to move my way, even if only millimeters closer, as if she was afraid of being brushed by the rough school boys flaying past in crisp white uniforms. Her presence began to fill our seat, as if she was anticipating being inadvertently fallen onto by one of the older blue-collar ladies now clogging the aisle. In a side glance I could view a hefty one who seemed resolved at maintaining handheld-balance on the seat just in front of us, her perspiration bulging in a floor-length baju kurong.

The bus jerked back to locomotion, and my demure neighbor moved her right hand from across her lap to pull at her skirt's right edge, revealing long thin fingers and unassuming modesty. As I pretended not to observe, she also brushed the linen skirt, revealing a tinge of vanity. Then, as if to finally acknowledge my existence, she lightly tossed her fringe back to the left side with a curt head movement, inviting me to note a teardrop-shaped pearl dangling from half an inch of gold thread, and a delicate earlobe.

That's when I realized that my stop was up next. I tried to restrain other thoughts, pressing the leather briefcase against my chest. But just as I reached up to press the exit button, I stole a glance, nearly frontal, in the dear lady's direction.

Suddenly, the bus's airbrakes expired like the blow of a whale. The vehicle slowed, I stood up, smiling downward. There our eyes met, and I could see that she not only understood my want of space for passing across her presence, but sensed something deeper, more primal.

Then it whacked me, a hammering against my left temple.

Damn! As I slid into the aisle, I realized I'd been slammed by a hard fist from the seat behind!

By then the bus had fully stopped, but before I could react, before I could even see my attacker, I was drawn by the tide of bustling wide bodies to the steps, only having a momentary presence of mind to draw my wallet out of my back pocket and swipe it against the exit meter. Without any thought beyond the explosion shattering my brow ridge, I was jostled down the steps and onto the sidewalk.

There I dropped my satchel and swiped my fingers across the Vesuvian bulge centered at my left orb. My right eye unblinded, I found a swath of crimson blood, saw large droplets collide with the sidewalk, and caught one last image of the bus moving off, spewing its fumes over me and an expanding circle of bystanders.

Pornographic Shrimp

Cellphone Fiction: Big in Japan, But Anybody can Write It

She and I were only seventeen but madly in love when we came up with this game. First, we would agree to skip school. I'd drive to the school parking lot and hide in my Vega as the buses rolled in. Hers was always the last. And she'd be the last person out. Then she'd slowly walk in the front door, turn around, and walk right back out, as if she'd forgotten something.

Next, she came running to my car, down past the buses just around the building corner. In she got, a wet kiss for me, and off we drove.

Second, a pit stop at Midway Market, where they always sold frozen shrimp. If she was feeling cautious, she'd pay for the pound bag.

Then, a fast drive down Zion Road, five miles pedal on the floor, straight to her house. Her mom was an elementary school teacher, and her dad a traveling salesman. The house was empty all day.

In the kitchen the stove was the gas burner type, a pain in the ass to light. But the water boiled real fast. In went the shrimp.

She always wore my favorite perfume on those days, Lavender Musk. The scent was so strong it covered the smell of shrimp on her fingers -- covered every inch of her body.

I'd bring the shrimp cocktail sauce straight from Mom's fridge. We'd use most of a bottle for each session. What didn't end up on her and in my mouth, or on the floor, well....

The warm bath she drew would take care of the rest.

.

The Conch Shell

That’s what she'd drawn on her paper. I’d asked everyone in class to write an autobiography of 250 words, and she drew a conch shell. I told her to talk to me about it after class. She smiled and said, “Of course, Mr. Smith. Then you’ll know me, and you’ll want to know more.”

I did want to know more, I confess. Olga was one of the most beautiful females I’d ever set eyes on, and certainly the most elegant student I’d met since I’d begun teaching in the community education program. It was a simple matter of pedigree, one might guess, the genetic magic of a handsome professional baseball-playing Japanese father and a Russian model mother.

Like both parents, Olga was tall and thin, with a long face, high cheek bones, dark, almond eyes, long lashes, arched brows, all framed by reddish-brown hair.

“Didn’t you understand the assignment?” I asked. She fluttered her lashes. “Perfectly,” she said. “And I let my imagination carry me. This is me, how to say… unclothed.”

“Can we meet for coffee?” I asked.

“How about dinner?” she responded. “I’ll prepare ratatouille, and bake a loaf of bread. Can you bring a bottle or two of wine?”

We exchanged cellphone numbers and set a date and time. I showed up early, discovering quickly that Olga was a long lost soulmate. Like me, she loved cooking and baking, did ikebana and was seriously into fashion. She also had a great collection of disco music on vinyls. It was noon the next day when I arrived back home.

Alberto, my boyfriend, was pleased that I’d found someone else to share time with.

The Road to Saint Joseph’s

It was 1973. My brother Nate and I were full of testosterone and other lively juices, the kind that take many young dudes to places they don't really expect to go. We were also in occasional command of a gold-color Oldsmobile Delta 98, the classy hulk of a car we would borrow from our understanding old man.

Dad had been quite the stud in high school, and I think he viewed his sons’ prowess as a sign of his own masculinity. At a time when our opinions on music, hair length and just about everything else differed to the point of aggravation, Dad and Nate and I agreed on one thing: A young guy had every right to take young ladies out in automotive splendor.

The Delta 98 was such a lady killer that whenever Nate or I were behind the wheel and passing through our town's only stop light, any kids sitting on the stoop of the corner pizza shop would howl in admiration.

Dad kept it spotless by saddling us boys with countless Saturday morning cleaning duties. Our tools were a high-powered vacuum cleaner, a matching pair of red wash buckets and two giant sponges. Our labor was a small price for the teenage romance that keys to the 98 allowed.

Under the 98’s hood was 455CCs of Detroit‘s wildest horsepower, projected ahead of the passenger compartment like a massive phallus. The dashboard that extended beneath the steering wheel to the glove box looked like I imagined a jet cockpit's control panel would, and the radio with rear-mounted speakers was state of the art.

Most importantly for our expeditions was its spongy yellow-gold back seat, sans bucket, which was ideal for “parking” situations.

And that’s what Nate and I had in mind that night as we headed south out of sleepy Somerset with a couple other local girls. We turned off SR13 and were driving down the desolate asphalt road that lurchs through hill and dale toward the empty lot of one of the oldest Catholic churchs in southern Ohio, St. Joseph’s.

For some reason even then I had been considered a safe driver. Nate would egg me on to no end for that, calling me a pussy for not seeing what Delta Force could do on a straight away or for not burning off some of the tread with a grande finale rip through a gravel intersection. But now I know, decades later, that even as cautious as I thought I was, we were often just an inch from disaster, because driving safely was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

They say of all the senses, the one for smell is the most acute, the most memorable. That may be true since I can still imagine how the perfume of my date that evening, a good Catholic girl named Mary, nearly drove me nuts the instant she jumped in the Delta. I can also still see how Mary beamed smiles to Nate and his date beneath her powdered freckles. Her long bleach blonde hair might have also excited me, but not half as much as the hip-hugging jeans framing the essence of my desires. Unfortunately, as I recall, our talk had been stilted, and unnatural, with Mary spending more time leaning back between the seats than she was looking in my direction; today I’m fairly sure she was just trailing me because her best friend was my brother’s babe. In the rear mirror I could see that he and Nan, when not interrupted by Mary, were really going to it. Something in the way Mary looked at me said I wasn’t going to be so lucky.

At some point, I felt that enough was enough. The distance across the wide front seat was too much, and Mary’s obvious disinterest made matters worse. Stewing on this, I stepped on the gas. Stewing on it more, I suddenly stomped on the brakes, bringing the Delta Force to a rest just 300 yards over the crest of one of those infamous southern Perry County hills.

It was dark all around, stars blinking indifferently above, our only company a far hillside of occasionally bleating sheep. I vaguely recall telling Nate it was his turn to drive; I jumped out of the car.

That demand animated everyone, and before ten seconds passed, Nate and Nan and Mary were also standing on the edge of the pavement behind the car, imploring me to shut up and drive. Each of them could see that I was pouting. But I’m not sure that Mary acted more affectionate. I also don’t know that any of us noticed that the Force’s doors were all wide-open.

As we stood there jawing, like a sudden lightning flash, twisted doom appeared in the form of another machine blasting right for us. That car, which I later realized was the souped up ride of one of the Green boys who lived nearby, was going 70 miles an hour if it was moving at all.

Jumping into the roadside weeds we screamed for our lives.

The other driver must have flipped his steering wheel just before he reached the 98, squealing around its outstrecthed wings. His maddened wheels were rocketing off their springs, but he never slowed down a beat.

Then before any of us could utter an expletive, the rampaging car had disappeared. ln its wake was nothing but a heavy Zeppelin boom hanging ghostly in the air.

On a handful of occasions in the years since that night I've driven down that same country road. Each time I have, I've remembered the fragility of our young lives beside the seemingly indestructible image of the Delta 98. I also imagine how easily it might have ended differently --- as tragically as it has for scores of not-so-lucky Ohio teens every summer since ‘73.

Lord Buddha Descends to Chicago's Wrigley Field

"Make me one with everything."

That's how the pony-tailed guy in faded shorts, Grateful Dead T-shirt and flip flops puts it to the hotdog vendor.

"I know just what you need" comes the reply. And a slightly browned Italian sausage is tonged off the sizzling hot plate and laid across a golden honey bun. Then comes a slathering of tangy Taka Tala Chutney, a squirt of Heintz Hotdog Relish, and a light sprinkling of onions.

The Heavenly Dawg is passed across the width of the vendor's cart, and a crisp twenty-dollar bill gets passed back.

The vendor takes another order.

The customer with hot dog in hand waits, and waits another minute. Finally looking askance, he clears his throat and says loudly, "I gave you twenty bucks, right?"

The vendor stops his grilling, and through a half-smile, offers humbly:

"My dear friend, all change comes from within."

.

The Babysitter

Birdie McCoy, a weak-eyed spinster, lived in a weathered farmhouse just two hundred yards down an isolated rural road from the polished new residence of a young couple with a baby. Being an antisocial type, Birdie had never taken the time to introduce herself to her new neighbors.

However, on her way to town one day, she spied a young woman sunbathing topless on the front lawn. Startled by what she saw, she turned around and drove back to take a second look. Sure enough, the girl had a bathing suit bottom on but otherwise was showing off oversized breasts.

How dare she lay out topless, Birdie thought to herself.

When she drove past later in the day, she saw that the girl was in the same position.

How sinful, Birdie steamed.

The following day as she drove past the Burtons', she slowed way down, and then let the car idle. There was the semi-nude girl, as usual.

Must be the teen babysitter, Birdie imagined. What other person would reveal herself like that?

As she gunned her old Ford's engine, she noted the babysitter didn't stir.

Must be sleeping, Birdie thought. And so lazy! What about the baby?

On her way back from town, she noticed that the babysitter was in the same position.

What an abomination! Birdie thought.

Home later, she decided that the next day she'd make an excuse for meeting the babysitter. She'd stop out front of the Burtons', walk up into the yard and say that her house phone was dead and her cellphone on the blink. She'd say she needed to call out for service. She'd do all that as pretext for letting the babysitter know just what she thought.

Birdie did exactly what she'd planned to do. She stopped her car, got out and walked right across the yard toward the babysitter, who didn't move a muscle.

"Excuse me. Hello," Birdie blurted.

The babysitter didn't get up. In fact, she didn't move a limb.

That's when the smell hit Birdie, when she caught a whiff of something evil, the stench of something putrefying. And the maggots.

In the newspaper days later, Birdie read all the details of the double homicide: Mr. & Mrs. Burton had been shot with single bullets where they slept, Mr. Burton in the head and Mrs. Burton between the breasts. The wife had then been drug out into the front lawn.

The real babysitter, now missing along with the Burton baby, was presumed to be the Burtons' killer.

.

Exhibit B: Final weblog entry of Mr. Jones

Life is good. For expats in this Southeast Asian city, it can be very good, but as I've learned, the unexpected can happen at any time. Like my new job. I'd expected to be posted to Warsaw. Fair enough. Then came the order: off to the tropics you go. So I packed my bags, crossed the Pacific, wound up in this efficient, clean and sunny city, and just moved into a new, virtually vacant condo complex.

What a find! Everything I'd read back in the US said that I could be paying Manhattan prices for a pad the size I wanted in the main business district. As I looked around, I eventually found this place, just out of the center, twice the size I'd wanted, with a grand pool, and half the Manhattan price. When I questioned the real estate agent on why so many cheap units were available here, he told me that the name, Beauty World, might've put people off. After I moved in though, I learned from a local colleague that the whole building had been built on what was once a Chinese graveyard. That's why I see ghosts every night in my dreams, I exclaimed.

It's really paradise. Take our pool, for example. It's just a two-flight walk down from my front door, and it's nearly always empty, except for one attractive young lady -- the "beauty of Beauty World," I call her -- who seems to frequent it every evening. I'd be lying if I told you that the view from my veranda of her wet, slender figure crisscrossing the pool didn't make me want to strip and take a dip. But this isn't just a carnal impulse. In fact, I've studied this lady closely, and more than even her well-endowed form and sleek black bathing apparel, I've noted how she has a most peculiar swimming style. She does not traverse the pool in free-style or an elegant butterfly-stroke. Nor does she bob, dog-paddle or do the breast-stroke. In fact, she slides arms-to-the-side completely underwater, propelled by an elastic manipulation of her torso, in one way similar to a porpoise, or from another perspective, like a corpse jettisoned from a water cannon.

I've already gone down a couple times with the idea of striking up a conversation, only to discover that she'd left. My swim was fine anyway, with the water clean and crystal clear. I have to admit though that several nights ago when I was questioning my only neighbor about the significance of the Hungry Ghost Festival and all the joss sticks, piles of ashes and oranges lying at various spots around the condo grounds, he avoided answering and instead complained vociferously about finding slime on the pool's surface. Said he'd also noticed the smell of rotting frangipani the air, and that enough was enough, he was gonna move out.

I told him to relax. It's a new complex, I said, and the various air and water filters might just need some tweaking.

Truthfully, the weirdness doesn't bother me because I've had other things on my mind. This evening I'm setting a challenge for myself: I'm going down and I swear I'm going to catch my mermaid. I'm going to sit on the edge of the pool, look lonely, forlorn, then splash water in her direction.

And tonight I won't let her leave without me.

...

...

...

...

...

...

Exhibit A: organisms found in the deceased resident's pool

My first circle of communication

My great grandparents -- Ira & Rachel Cooperider -- my mother, Martha Elder Blackstone -- my father, Wayne Blackstone -- and my grandmother, Carrie Elizabeth Cooperider Blackstone (My grandfather Jerry Blackstone took the photo.)


My grandfather Jerry and my father Wayne


My mother, father, my younger brother Brent and I

Drivin' Down the Berm

miles of road strewn with shoes
not daring to be worn
night upon night sirens flood
for the children never born
and the light upon the moon
a reflection, that's all
of the embers as they burn
in the furnace of your mind
encirclin' these thoughts
you go drivin' down the berm

rear view mirrors double vision
it's all the same to me
day by day landmarks fall
every way that you can see
and the dance of the sun
a reflection, that's all
of the embers as they burn
on the pavement of your heart
swirlin' now like ash
you go drivin' down the berm

(chorus)
head upon the highway
distant rollin' thunder
old songs how they simmer
heels to be awanderin'
like an old tambourine
day breaks on a dime
everyone's up and gone
suitcases packed with time
and here I stand alone
_____

some words will set you free
hope's a rig breath an engine
but page after page after page
each fades in locomotion
and the light upon the moon
a reflection, that's all
of the ride that we once shared
on the edge of a dream
encircling these thoughts
you go drivin' down the berm

==repeat chorus==

Angel of Darkness

woe cried the muse,
my tears started at the sound
woe cried the muse,
grief perched upon my brow
and thought embraced her

what does this mean, I cried
what does this mean, I cried

woe cried the muse,
when summer spread her plumes
woe cried the muse,
she turned her notes around me
joy fanned its wings
and golden pleasures beamed
about my head

what does this mean, I cried
what does this mean, I cried

til mute attention struck my ear
it spoke as if to bid farewell
the winds their sad complainings bore
and love, in infant bud,
vanished

is this the heart of hearts
all disappeared?

woe cried the muse,
then struck her deepest string
woe cried the muse,
with sympathy up my nerves
trembling
every face of doubt burst out
to sing
round the darkening sky

what does this mean, I cried
what does this mean, I cried

woe cried the muse,
then a rude thunder closed my eyes
woe cried the muse,
laid the lilied beauties at my green
the dance was broke,
a flower plucked, but not far blown

what does this mean, I cried
what does this mean, I cried

til mute attention struck my ear
it spoke as if to bid farewell
the winds their sad complainings bore
and love in infant bud, vanished

is this the heart of hearts
all disappeared?

ever from my sight
an angel of darkness
in the circus of light