Z.

Shannon and I watched as the tribe of hobos filled their car with containers of loose change.  There were four of them working together, unburying holes in the ground or moving makeshift covers made out of wooden pallets to the side, exposing crates full of bottles, sacks, bags and jars full of coins of all sorts.  One by one they'd extract these containers and move them to the trunk of the car. It wasn't a make or a model I recognized, the name long faded from the car's rear end. It looked old, though. Something from the early 90s, perhaps.  But it ran. It was maintained, even if it wasn't luxurious.  Occasionally the four hobos, led by the main figure who we quickly identified as answering to the name "Virgil", would mutter incoherencies to themselves.  "Those who know nothing know something about things that those who know something know nothing about," they repeated off and on, with other similar-sounding but equally cryptic credos mixed in.  Fro...

In a language-driven world, there can scarcely be any greater relief than allowing your words to fail. "Words, words, words."  —William Shakespeare.  The relentless emphasis on communication has revealed an even greater attraction to the ambiguous, the subtle, and the unsaid.  One can be starved for speechlessness.  Especially when confronted with what language falls furthest short of capturing. I could deign to describe, at length, every part of you I'm fascinated by. Yet, the endeavor only approaches—never arrives. A description of that which arrests me—a look, or glance—a gesture, a nod—would still fail to capture the captivation.  Better, then, to simply allow those moments to slip on by—unremarked upon, but not unmarked.  "Words fail me." What a relief. Refusing to wrestle those fleeting moments into clumsy verbiage chisels them even deeper into the mind's eye. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" said some dude, once. Should I sew so...

There was a knock at the door yesterday. I got up to open it. I wondered, is it a delivery? Perhaps Mormons on a mission? I briefly reflected on one particularly memorable conversation I had with two Mormon missionaries years ago. I wondered silently how they were doing—when I reached out to grab my front door handle. I opened my door and to my complete surprise, standing on my porch was neither Mormon, deliveryman, or deliverywoman. It was an alien. A fucking alien.  I gawked. Its hand was still raised upright from having knocked on my door. "Hey," it said, nervously. In utter shock, I stepped backwards. Its realness was unmistakable. It wasn't a man in a suit. It wasn't a hologram. It wasn't AI or a hallucination. It was a real alien. As sure as seeing you or whoever else at my front door. I could do little to disguise my bewilderment. It sighed in resignation at my reaction. "That's right," it said. "I'm an alien." I stammered, tryin...

Accursed be thee, yon white nose hair! Ne'er seen a strand in color so long and fair.      A wretched pale spire of thy damned kin,      Thou hast grown too far o'er mine own chin,     To belie  the youthful mirth of thy wearer's face,     Flaunting thy thread-like wisp in mock disgrace. Bereft of merit and void of charm art thou, A ghastly figure now waves unfurled upon my prow.      Thy wind-blown sprawls o'erreach thy nostril's tomb,      Clutching like a phantom from thy cavernous womb.      O! w hat vile purpose dost thy girded ivory will intend?      What quarry seek’st thou, that heaven dare not send? Would'st thou not resign to dress in shadow? Prithee, diminish thyself in my beard's dark meadow.     Shroud thy weedy form in concealment's strength,     Spare my neighbor's glance thy twisted, gnarled length.     Do not tempt to steal a ...

I once had a job balancing the daily income and pooled tips of a saloon. At the time, it was the earliest morning job I'd ever had.  They gave me a key and the entry code, and I would let myself into the bar, sometimes when it was still dark outside.  Kind of an old-timey place. "Wild west" ambiance. Not unearned, either. There was some legitimate history, there. I'd go and turn on the kitchen lights. Get things going. The place had a menu. "Buffalo" burger. "Rattlesnake" wings. "Prickly pear" potato skins. That sort of thing. Every morning when I'd turn on those kitchen lights, the walls would run away from me. It was incredible how efficient cockroaches are at running away. Top-tier scattering skills.  It was a historic building on the national registry. It makes it hard to renovate and properly exterminate pests in old buildings like that. Expensive. Especially in a facility serving food and beverages.  Being a "historic build...

CECIL wanders in a harsh, empty desert—stretching out around him for untold miles into the horizon.  He's been walking a long time. VOICE OVER:  Ancient people associated the desert with God. Or gods. They would go to look for him. Or her. Them. It. Out there, without food or water or shelter. Depriving themselves of all life giving necessities until God, or the gods, made itself known to the believer. Sacrifice. Sacrifice of self. This is what you needed to give, just for the chance to have an encounter with the All. Cecil collapses in the dust.  VOICE OVER:   Lots of people have died in the desert.  Cecil's open mouth opens and closes like a gasping fish on land, dust sticking to his lips. VOICE OVER:   But at the crucial moment. Right before death. People would find God. Or God would find them. Communion. Cecil looks up one last time to see a WHITE VAN at the crest of a sand dune in the distance. Is it a hallucination? Are there people there—looking back...

A man and a woman sit in a restaurant for breakfast. Waiting for their orders to arrive, they pass the time by talking to each other. A: "So tell me something about yourself."  B: "Okay, but let's talk about something else." A: "You don't want to talk about yourself?" B: "I don't mind that. But we can do that by talking about anything." A: "Okay--"  B: "Because if we talk about... this salt shaker, we'll learn more about each other than we could hope to by trying." A: "Alright. What about that vase over there?" B: "Vase? What vase?" A: "That one." B turns to look at the vase. A: "What do you think?" B: "I don't know. Do you think vases are made to be broken?" A: "Broken? Why would you break a vase?" B: "It's a trope. A cliché. You see it in cartoons and old movies."  A: "Like when someone bumps into a little table and the vase st...

Let him down gently.   (But let him down). 

I've decided on what I want done with my body after I die.  I've toyed with a lot of options over the years. For a long time, the Tibetan sky burial was my preferred choice. I asked an old friend at a restaurant I waited tables at in my 20s if he'd facilitate this for me. He became increasingly annoyed with me the more I asked, but he was good with a knife. Being an organ donor is absolutely out of the question. It's clear that doctors have no idea what they're doing. The only thing that would make their incompetence more unbelievable is if doctors were planning on placing this living man's organs inside of an already-dead cadaver.  For a while, another friend and colleague had asked if he could have my skull once I'm done with it. But I think if he knew what my recent plans were, he might reconsider. For, just the other day, when scrolling through YouTube, I had a eureka! moment. Yes. This is what I want done with my body. NOT to be eaten. For display purpo...