Beck: Dammit!!

Me: What?

I had made my way upstairs into Beck’s kitchen which then leads into the dining room where she was sitting at the dining room table with her dinner.

Beck: You’re supposed to make a sound, any sound!

Me: What? The steps creak a bit, and that handrail just lost a screw that fell to the floor. You didn’t hear that?

Beck: (glance – glare)

Me: Ok, I’ll step harder … and find that screw (ahhhhh m’fer, I need a flashlight).

Beck: You’re supposed to sound like the troll that lives at the bottom of the stairs under the house (downstairs) like you’ve said. Can’t you grunt or something? I mean, you’re old and always breathy grunting anyway, or at least that’s what you tell folks. Don’t be getting’ all ninja-like suddenly.

Me: Sorry (though a little proud of my newfound Ninja).

////////////////////////////////////////

I’ve been living in my new found digs for more than a couple of months now, with my sister and my nephews, Jake and Matt, (24 & 18, old enough to discern for themselves that this uncle Steve thing may have been a mistake or not and I have found myself to be quite happy with such, whatever the determination). Circumstance called for a change from an old untenable situation to instead be the guy who lives at the bottom of the stairs “under the house”, in a basement, in what amounts to a pretty cool studio apartment replete with two cats, my beloved Bella and Cricket, waaaay too much shit for a single guy stored in the room next door (with a washer/dryer/clean underwear bonus) and space that that untenable situation didn’t allow.

And I can write in comfort.

Now, not that that old situation stunted creativity, it didn’t, I wrote some pretty good stuff then, but it was more of a just get it done now if you can, quickly, as you still have to wake up in the morning to the reminder of NOT comfort so get some furtive sleep.

////////////////////////////////////////

Buck, Beck’s guy, and a brother of mine from a long time gone if he and I had known each other years ago, in a different life for me it would have been, flying planes and high fiving ourselves in passing on the tarmac, had some friends over for the weekend. I had plans to not engage and just be that troll under the stairs, doing what I do, had a new poem to work on as a matter of fact, but, well, I am no good at that in the face of new people as my mother would be so disappointed in my lack of cordiality if so … so I engaged and told a few stories (yes Dad, you would have been story proud).

Hopefully they were able to sleep easy without any concern of that guy under the stairs who might somehow invade their dreams

////////////////////////////////////////

I just thought now to some new things.

Blade

Blade looked about the sea

“Now that is such a sight to see, an expanse not matched for any land lubbers who aren’t me”

The newbie, (that was me) exclaimed “what is it that you see … Blade?”

“I see Pirate dreams but you, young Harley, are not ready”

“Why?”

“Because my scabbard could have diced you just now ya see”

I stood on deck at a fine point just at my gut

“Don’t ask questions, just be, just be the sea” he said “or you will soon find yourself dead”

I took his name as he looked about then under the sea

Novice pirates may not have scabbards, but they can still have knives also pointed at the gut

Ya see

////////////////////////////////////////

I just shoehorned that one in there by the way. It has no connection to the story at hand. I just like it.

////////////////////////////////////////

But I have quieted myself even more than normal, no one needs to know that I am here, other than a couple of cats and an uncle, and hopefully friend, who is just that and Buck’s friends don’t really need to know of the guy under the stairs. Just in passing.

I know this sounds all very dramatic and really silly and I am sure there are those that wonder of a 60 year old dude who is living like he is still in college, a mattress and boxspring on the floor, which is not a change by the way, years, single and a not care of what may be but I am not going to constrain myself to bedframe convention, it is what it is. I like beds on the floor, plus it’s important to be proactive on possible monsters underneath. Beck has just nodded her head at it with a quizzical look and I will just go with it, as I always have, plus, I really am kinda quiet …

… though not quite quiet enough for some in my new part-time work locale.

Seems I have the ability to make a really strong first impression and drew the attention of HR in emails about my language and my just regular going about my day.

M’fr what is that shit all about?!

Now upsetting an apple cart of oranges is not really my concern nor my intent, I can’t control the overly sensitive nature of those that would probably find apples and even their own oranges to not be to their liking so …

////////////////////////////////////////

In the Moment

My head lolls like a blind cat

Yes I know

Cricket

On a swivel

On a bobble

On a swerve

On a Stevie Wonder

On a pillow if your head can loll such

.

Its way too early for thoughts like these

Though

I nod on that pillow

.

V (Victoria) noises above my head

At the top of the steps

Doing simple human things

The sink

The phone

The garbage with a clink

Routine

Maybe even the recyclables in a non recyclable bag

Being alone in her thoughts

Other than the phone

Which talks into the way

Of a V day and what it may bring

Or maybe has already brought

Though it is early

.

I feel comfort in the small noise

Of V

As I am an old man now

Have been for a time’s time it seems

And have found a new stead

Listening from under my head

My bed

At the bottom of the steps

To others attempts at a day

Start

Maybe toast

And butter

A little jelly even

.

I discover a new world in an ear

From under the stairs

That tells me things I didn’t know

////////////////////////////////////////

Beck: Seriously, make some freakin’ noise will ya? Ya old troll

Me: HeHe. I just did … I think.

There is this spot, what was surely a vibrant truck stop once, that I pass in my to an fro’s in my new commute along the NY State Thruway. It sits vacant, boarded, graffitied, among all the other alive spots I pass where you can grab some gas, a bit of shut-eye or maybe a bite to eat.

An anomaly

A dead spot

.

Exit 21B

It was raining dogs and devils

a night as thick as pitch but there was light …

Exit 21B

a promise of respite from the drive

that took so long to not quite survive   

just yet

our destination

.

it shone, shimmered, sparkled,

harkened

Exit 21B

brighting our way

with promise

“Oh, that’s a place we could stay”

in this dark and stormy cliché

.

Truckers drank coffee at a counter

ogling Mary’s offers

to refill a cup before return to their trucks

dreaming in back bed sleep cabs

of another mug

.

We shook off the rain

just a wet stain

at our feet

in a puddle

.

Do you have a room,

to escape soon now this horrid swoon

of weather?

.

Of course, just sign here Sir

.

There were tables of chance

to win without even a glance

it was easy

night was day

peasy

.

There were family and friends left to the wayside

justified

besides who are they

really?

.

We sang in bright neon lights

our day’s night might

wonder how we could have been so lucky to have lost our way

in a night dark as stark

to find this haven

Exit 21B

.

When we woke we stood to shake off the yoke

of another day’s side step

then just to skip stop to our next next  

to the coast

but exit 21B made us stay

.

We are here today

boarded up behind wood nailed windows

long dead highway signs

long dead neon

long dead Mary

to fill a cup a mug

of coffee

for trucker dreams

the coast always so far away

it seems

now

at exit 21B

I know, all these years of me being single and not caring of such, and then Kelsay came along. I realize she seems a bit out of my league, well actually in another league entirely, like a completely different sport, but if you are going to dive back in let it be the deep end and hope you remember how to swim … I mean, look at the, those ummm, shades!! Ya don’t quibble with cool shades and true love.

And the turn ….

Now to not be catfish and be catfish and ask for money.

So back in March I did a version of Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody” and thought I would re-post it here now. That’s it.

Gonna Wanna Rule Somebody

You may be a wished dictator who’s scripting a dream

Of what to do in year 25 with a right’s loyalist team

Who’r mapping out a dire plan where democracy it seems

Is no longer a real player in the grandest of red schemes

.

And you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes indeed

And you’re gonna wanna king somebody

It may be those already on the devil’s dark page

Or those forced to take new stage

.

Body vessels are the targets in this new SCOTUS age

The ones who stand up try prevent women in a cage

The ones who had temerity to think body autonomy

But in this new world order legislating you’s the rage

.

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes you are

And you’re gonna wanna lord somebody

You’ll make women understand that they just don’t have a say

Instead monitored by state

.

You may be undesirable in this grand U S of A

An invader less than human is all he will have to say

To rile up the base while he drives all you away

The military will be called upon slap down to make point’s sway

.

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes you are

You’re gonna wanna lord somebody

You’ll make those who just don’t belong go back to where they’re from

Yeah, you’re gonna wanna king somebody

.

You may be a protester on campus wantin’ say

You hate the inhumanity that you’re seeing day by day

That you’re not an anti this that or even a pro that  

You just hate women and children wearing dead pawn hats

.

But they’re gonna wanna rule somebody, yes indeed

They’re gonna wanna use your naivete

To gain an in ground against hated college elites

They’re gonna wanna rule somebody

.

And you may be example of future disputes

To quell freedom of speech tear it out by the roots

Teach that protest is only what they will agree

You are no patriots like Jan 6 ones who would see

That he gets chance to rule somebody, yes indeed

Gets chance for a new autocracy

That there will be no dissent that doesn’t come with intent

To help him rule somebody

.

You might like use projection to describe your enemies

Accuse them of harboring fascist wills and dreams of tyranny

You’ll even claim reverse discrimination of dear whitey

You’ll say that anti-white feeling can’t happen in this great country

.

And you’re gonna wanna lord somebody, yes you are

And you’re gonna wanna take us back

To a time where white man ruled

And others minded their P’s & Q’s

You’re gonna wanna white everybody

.

You may call yourself disciple of the MAGA ways

Protect yourself on his good side fearful of vengeful days

You may even say that fascism’s not that bad just give it play

As we’ve heard too often now from MAGA’s praying new Trump day

.

Well, you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes it’s him

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

Well, it may be the devil, while the lord sits this one out

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

.

You’re gonna have to serve the orange

You’re gonna have to serve prostrate

You’re gonna have to serve not the lord       

You’re gonna have to serve new devil’s day

The other day my Production boss, Randy, and I went to a local waterpark, Splashdown Beach “America’s Biggest Little Waterpark” in Fishkill, NY at the invite of the Splashdown boss guy, Steve, to grab some lunch as a thank you for the production work we do for them (well, Randy … Steve and Splashdown are “his” in our divvied up client work).

While waiting in the main lobby area I got a chance to be fascinated again, as I always am, at some of the oversized photos of old time beach and summer time fun, as well as older Splashdown pics that adorn the walls here and around the rest of the park.

Some of the older ones, of classic, happy, boardwalk and beach days made me think of Postcards that might have featured the same back when postcards were still sent.

(post post addition: I noted not too long after posting this new one of mine a prompt at dVerse Poets about “dreams” and writing of such. I thought this one could possibly fit that bill)

.

Postcard

You were beach and boardwalks

pictures of imagined

haughty days only others could afford

to ride Ferris Wheels and wave tall round smiles at excitedly milling insects below

or chance games of chance perchance

when you returned to earth

.

You were an untold story in vistas in the long

that stretched toward far off worlds over waves that

fell curved into dreams

and I curved with them

.

You were hand in almost

hand

pinkies

young

could I kiss her

if I were there, in a postcard

not be awkward in words

saladed with ummms and ahhhhhs

Would that be too forward an ask?

.

My feet lift happy

as I go nowhere with purpose

stilled

in my postcard

that one mustached swimmer who looks me in the eye

from the beach in a striped one piece

long dead

tells me the sky was perfect for postcard dreams

that day

sent for smiling envy

.

Your magic

your wonder

has been lost

but your bright pastels and pictured smells

were all the tells of where I wanted to be

stammering in possible young love in the sun

found history past

in a box

of memory

of postcards I collected

when I was young

.

Could I send you to a new found love?

Now?

Maybe?

Imploring “Wish you were here”

with colored pinks and blues and yellows and reds

that taste of stretchy taffy

smell of sticky cotton candy

feel of crispy skin sea salt

sound of creaky old wood beneath my feet

.

Could I step back?

For just a moment

recapture the wistful wish

of a card pictured boardwalked sunshined day sent in the mail?

So I thought I would offer this up in case anyone is inclined to send me some mail.

I have moved.

The address you previously had for all those Christmas and birthday cards, they were lovely by the way, thank you, has been updated.

I only mention this as I would hate for any further correspondence to be lost in future Louis DeJoy attempts to destroy the U.S. Mail, especially with a pretty consequential election just around the corner. Damn those mail in votes says Louis.

I now call the kingdom of shopping plaza’s and strip malls and waaaay too many churches and pizza joints home. Albany (or its thereabouts).

I had been, for the longest of time, situated in a perfect of spots with a friend and her above garage place in Poughkeepsie. It was a place of wonder, furry and even winged wonder. So very furry you could lose count. And a spot so furry that you could easily get in shape simply from the oft repeated petting “hello (insert name)” bend downs and one that begged you to take stock in rolly sticky things that you kept on hand at all times just to keep up with all the fur that would stick to you like welcome glue.

Never wear black by the way.

But things change and I have new digs.

See, I have this sister, her name is Rebecca, she’s very nice and a real love and quite possibly the best friend I have ever had (others were in the moment though some have thrived past that thankfully) but she’s been a constant, surely to her year’s long “Seriously Steve?” dismay. You’d like her, good at charades and card games, and she has these two boys, their names being Jacob and Mathew who are also very nice, who you’d also like, though I don’t know of their proficiency at charades or cards, and Matt is quite the cook and champeen good at simulating the pyramid of Giza in the kitchen sink in the process. Together they have this house, home, a little place in a land called Schenectady that has a finished basement that was only being used for housing a behemoth of a treadmill that no one treaded on and a litter box for a very chunky, clunky, chubby little large cat named Ricki who meows like 2 or 3 packs a day.

There are two other cats, Arthur and Sephira, but they are more able to fend for themselves outside of this and are quite lithe instead.

I’ll hold off on referring to this as a basement though, even if that is what it is, as it sounds like I am the story of sad “guy who lived in somebody’s basement” lore. Me being in an almost Mom basement can cry pathetic and solitude and conspiracy theories and manifestos and tinfoil hats but that it not the case (I haven’t finished the manifesto yet … it’s still just a draft).

It’s a nice little spot and will afford me a break on rent, Beck only asks of my soul to use in rituals on small altars, nothing too involved, and a few dollars and gives me a chance to maybe breathe a little, something in this radio life of mine I have never really been able to do, and I have been doing this for quite a while.

So anyway, you can direct your cards this way now, they will be welcomed by myself and my own fur, Bella and Cricket who are enjoying their new surrounds replete with central air but who haven’t met Ricki the chunky yet, or Arthur or Sephira, though I’m sure that will be all kumbaya’s and peaches and cream and sunshine and rainbows and happy meow songs and will be picture cut perfect and pasted into vision boards or collages like grade school projects on large poster paper hung on walls in a NOT basement.

Cheers all.

(I told ya Ricki was a little chunky and sounded like a 2 or 3 pack a dayer)