Parade Girl
C.A. MacConnell
6/30/2017
6/29/2017
Photo: Proud
Proud
I think I'm the one on the far left, drifting away. Today, my Mom told me stories about when I was four years old and apparently "so headstrong." Seems that back then, there was this rocking chair that I claimed as mine, and I wouldn't let anyone else sit there -- not even my Grandpa. I'd yell at him if he tried.
What can I say, I still like rockers.
But if my next partner plays a kazoo and/or spoons and a washboard, that's just fucking fine with me.
;)
Be you. I love to see people in a state of "true element," when you can tell his/her heart is singing.
Are you reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR? People are digging it!
C.A. MacConnell
6/27/2017
The Country Club
Their world rages pink,
like a chapped lip,
like a strange,
split sunset
on the mouth
of a private plane.
Some smoke cigars
in the basement.
Leather lazy boys.
Nothing but time
and sheep.
Today’s party
is in the main room,
down the hall,
the side table beneath
the exclusive painting.
A golf course view
of buttons and zippers.
Windbreakers.
For the children,
somewhere near
the all-you-can-eat
buffet, they'll bring in
five or twenty
live bunnies.
C.A. MacConnell
like a chapped lip,
like a strange,
split sunset
on the mouth
of a private plane.
Some smoke cigars
in the basement.
Leather lazy boys.
Nothing but time
and sheep.
Today’s party
is in the main room,
down the hall,
the side table beneath
the exclusive painting.
A golf course view
of buttons and zippers.
Windbreakers.
For the children,
somewhere near
the all-you-can-eat
buffet, they'll bring in
five or twenty
live bunnies.
C.A. MacConnell
6/26/2017
Twelve Minutes
Here's a fiction sample for you. I have a slew of secret things I'm working on, but you don't get to see those just yet. : ) Gotta keep some things hush hush, just to be sneaky. And smart. So for now, just some samples. The rest will leak out as I get to them. Sweet.
Comedy today, just because. Hope you laugh some. -- Love, C.A.
Twelve Minutes
Sweating, on top of Beth, Paul paused and asked, "Don't you like it like this?" He gently kissed her on the mouth.
"I guess, but I like our sex better when I can breathe," Beth answered, coughing. "By the way, can you shave soon? Your whiskers are giving me that chin rash again. Looks like I have a red beard."
"Damn, sorry, but what's wrong with being a pirate?" he said, laughing, slightly moving his body away from her chest. "About your oxygen, I can't help it. I just got carried away."
"I know," Beth said, breathing heavily. "You're gonna kill me. A little Viagra, and you're like the Energizer Bunny man all of a sudden. And I'm sitting here with my hair stuck to my cheek, about to flat line. Well, don't stop, damn it, keep going. The kids will be home in a half hour." She glanced at the wall clock. "Make that twelve minutes," she said.
Again, Paul moved close to her. "Stop ordering me around. I love you."
"Not like that," she said. "Shit, great, now all I can think about are Gino's Pizza Rolls. I love you too."
"Well how? Which way? Like that porn we got? Man, I'm not that flexible," he said, pausing. "And pizza rolls? What the hell? Focus, focus, dear. Why are you thinking about pizza?"
"I dunno, just do something hot, make me forget about pepperoni," Beth said. "You know, they have that commercial where that happy mom is making pizza rolls for all those kids. I feel like I should be like that woman all the time. It's so much pressure. No one could ever make that many pizza rolls at once. I can't live up to that woman."
He kissed her cheek. "You are that woman."
"Maybe do me from behind, yeah," she said, turning over. "Let's try that."
"Oh, we haven't done that in a while," Paul said. "Not sure if..."
"I know, your knees..." Beth said. "Never mind." She rolled over and stretched out on her back.
Beside her, Paul stretched out too.
"Aren't you frustrated?" she asked him.
"It's all right," Paul said. "We can do the side thing tonight, when we have more time."
"You are frustrated."
"Aren't you?" he asked.
"I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis on those yogurt commercials. You know, Activia," Beth said.
"Huh?" Paul laughed.
"Those ones where you're supposed to eat the yogurt so you won't be constipated," Beth explained.
"That's how you feel?" Paul asked.
"Yeah."
"You feel like you ate the yogurt, or you feel like you need to?" he asked, chuckling.
"Like I need to. All stuffed up," she said. "Maybe I should just do it myself."
"Do what? Eat the yogurt?" he asked. "You constipated? Man, I am. Have been for a week. Damn, are you crying?"
"No, I don't think so, but did you have to tell me about your bowel schedule right now?" Beth said, rolling her eyes. "I'm gonna just do it myself." She reached her hand down.
"Oh, yeah, do it," he said. "Go ahead, I'll watch."
"If you watch, I'll get all nervous, and then I won't be able to do it," Beth said in a raised voice.
"Well what do you want me to do?" he asked her.
She brought a hand to her chin, thinking. "I dunno, you could put your hand down there, do that thing. Or you could just go make the kids some of those pizza rolls?"
"What are you gonna do?" he asked.
"I'm gonna finish the job. You know, eat the yogurt," she said, grinning.
"Sometimes it's like you're speaking a different language," he said, getting up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, shaking his head. He smiled wide, showing a straight set of teeth.
"Honey, your teeth look great. You just whiten?" Beth asked, hand at her crotch.
"About a week ago. They hurt like hell," Paul said.
Beth asked, "Hey, have you ever seen that commercial with the Southern Comfort guy, where he's holding that glass, and it has this flag sticking out of it that says, 'Be you,' or something, I can't remember," Beth said.
Paul leaned in, looked her in the eye, touched her breast, and said, "No, the flag reads, 'Whatever's comfortable.'"
"Hey, we better hurry. Get outta here. I'm gonna do it myself. It's getting late. About that commercial, you sure that's what's on that flag? You sure?"
Paul laughed, flashing his white teeth. "I dunno, love, but I'm sure I'd like to watch."
"Me, or the commercial?" Beth asked.
"Both," Paul answered.
-- C.A. MacConnell
Comedy today, just because. Hope you laugh some. -- Love, C.A.
Twelve Minutes
Sweating, on top of Beth, Paul paused and asked, "Don't you like it like this?" He gently kissed her on the mouth.
"I guess, but I like our sex better when I can breathe," Beth answered, coughing. "By the way, can you shave soon? Your whiskers are giving me that chin rash again. Looks like I have a red beard."
"Damn, sorry, but what's wrong with being a pirate?" he said, laughing, slightly moving his body away from her chest. "About your oxygen, I can't help it. I just got carried away."
"I know," Beth said, breathing heavily. "You're gonna kill me. A little Viagra, and you're like the Energizer Bunny man all of a sudden. And I'm sitting here with my hair stuck to my cheek, about to flat line. Well, don't stop, damn it, keep going. The kids will be home in a half hour." She glanced at the wall clock. "Make that twelve minutes," she said.
Again, Paul moved close to her. "Stop ordering me around. I love you."
"Not like that," she said. "Shit, great, now all I can think about are Gino's Pizza Rolls. I love you too."
"Well how? Which way? Like that porn we got? Man, I'm not that flexible," he said, pausing. "And pizza rolls? What the hell? Focus, focus, dear. Why are you thinking about pizza?"
"I dunno, just do something hot, make me forget about pepperoni," Beth said. "You know, they have that commercial where that happy mom is making pizza rolls for all those kids. I feel like I should be like that woman all the time. It's so much pressure. No one could ever make that many pizza rolls at once. I can't live up to that woman."
He kissed her cheek. "You are that woman."
"Maybe do me from behind, yeah," she said, turning over. "Let's try that."
"Oh, we haven't done that in a while," Paul said. "Not sure if..."
"I know, your knees..." Beth said. "Never mind." She rolled over and stretched out on her back.
Beside her, Paul stretched out too.
"Aren't you frustrated?" she asked him.
"It's all right," Paul said. "We can do the side thing tonight, when we have more time."
"You are frustrated."
"Aren't you?" he asked.
"I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis on those yogurt commercials. You know, Activia," Beth said.
"Huh?" Paul laughed.
"Those ones where you're supposed to eat the yogurt so you won't be constipated," Beth explained.
"That's how you feel?" Paul asked.
"Yeah."
"You feel like you ate the yogurt, or you feel like you need to?" he asked, chuckling.
"Like I need to. All stuffed up," she said. "Maybe I should just do it myself."
"Do what? Eat the yogurt?" he asked. "You constipated? Man, I am. Have been for a week. Damn, are you crying?"
"No, I don't think so, but did you have to tell me about your bowel schedule right now?" Beth said, rolling her eyes. "I'm gonna just do it myself." She reached her hand down.
"Oh, yeah, do it," he said. "Go ahead, I'll watch."
"If you watch, I'll get all nervous, and then I won't be able to do it," Beth said in a raised voice.
"Well what do you want me to do?" he asked her.
She brought a hand to her chin, thinking. "I dunno, you could put your hand down there, do that thing. Or you could just go make the kids some of those pizza rolls?"
"What are you gonna do?" he asked.
"I'm gonna finish the job. You know, eat the yogurt," she said, grinning.
"Sometimes it's like you're speaking a different language," he said, getting up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, shaking his head. He smiled wide, showing a straight set of teeth.
"Honey, your teeth look great. You just whiten?" Beth asked, hand at her crotch.
"About a week ago. They hurt like hell," Paul said.
Beth asked, "Hey, have you ever seen that commercial with the Southern Comfort guy, where he's holding that glass, and it has this flag sticking out of it that says, 'Be you,' or something, I can't remember," Beth said.
Paul leaned in, looked her in the eye, touched her breast, and said, "No, the flag reads, 'Whatever's comfortable.'"
"Hey, we better hurry. Get outta here. I'm gonna do it myself. It's getting late. About that commercial, you sure that's what's on that flag? You sure?"
Paul laughed, flashing his white teeth. "I dunno, love, but I'm sure I'd like to watch."
"Me, or the commercial?" Beth asked.
"Both," Paul answered.
-- C.A. MacConnell
6/25/2017
Photo: We All Have a Voice
We All Have a Voice
At some point, I'll get a real camera. Don't consider myself a pro...just sharing parts of me that come out through images. Hope you enjoy the shots. Every now and then, I get some winners. :)
Been getting things ready for the book signing for THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. I hope you can come. I'm looking forward to it, for sure. I can't wait for this book to get some more exposure. I'm proud of this work, I am.
Happy to be alive.
C.A. MacConnell
6/23/2017
The Shop
I went for a walk in torrential rains, which was interesting...the creatures really come out in the rain. I saw a frog the size of a softball, and he let me touch him. I also saw a huge snake. He told me to steer clear, so I did. Ha. I know my limits. Hope you're well. We all lead separate lives, but are they really separate at all? Not to give too much away, but that's what this one's about. Here's a poem for you. -- C.A.
The Shop
The clean, fresh
sheets. The fat cat
fed. The fish tank
tomorrow. Whites.
The final spin.
The heavy weight
of spotless silence.
No, no ring
tone near her beige
bedroom. Far past time.
The cream Eldorado
is locked, three deep,
in The Shop,
where the filthy,
full-lipped mechanic
lovingly
smokes menthols.
Her pretty ride
will still make
the night owl.
C.A. MacConnell
The Shop
The clean, fresh
sheets. The fat cat
fed. The fish tank
tomorrow. Whites.
The final spin.
The heavy weight
of spotless silence.
No, no ring
tone near her beige
bedroom. Far past time.
The cream Eldorado
is locked, three deep,
in The Shop,
where the filthy,
full-lipped mechanic
lovingly
smokes menthols.
Her pretty ride
will still make
the night owl.
C.A. MacConnell
6/21/2017
Photo: Ault
Ault Park Gardens
Not hard to take a good photo here...it's so lovely. I'm superstitious about the way I walk through these gardens. Have to do it the same way each time, just because. You should hear about my cleaning routine, ha. I like to call it superstition. Makes it seem more dreamy, rather than off kilter.
Hope you're well and happy. Love,
C.A. MacConnell
6/20/2017
Two-way Radio
Lunken Airfield
Two-way Radio
From the time I was 15 until I was 22, I worked for a high end limo company. It was a family business, so I fell into it, eventually becoming the go-fer plus everything else. We used to pick people up down at Lunken all the time. We drove all those who came in for Riverbend shows and all other big venues. Summers, I was down at Riverbend almost every night. Really, it was like a second home to me. During the day, I'd be down there taking care of business in the offices. At night, I'd be wearing some shiny outfit that usually involved a bodysuit, hanging out in the Pit or backstage or whatever, wherever I was needed. I'm surprised that I could do my job with all of the pure wildness.
From the time I was 15 until I was 22, I worked for a high end limo company. It was a family business, so I fell into it, eventually becoming the go-fer plus everything else. We used to pick people up down at Lunken all the time. We drove all those who came in for Riverbend shows and all other big venues. Summers, I was down at Riverbend almost every night. Really, it was like a second home to me. During the day, I'd be down there taking care of business in the offices. At night, I'd be wearing some shiny outfit that usually involved a bodysuit, hanging out in the Pit or backstage or whatever, wherever I was needed. I'm surprised that I could do my job with all of the pure wildness.
Yes, some nights were a mess. And some were absolutely...missing.
We also drove comedians, businessmen/women, actors, you name it. Everybody who was anybody took limos in those days. There was no Uber. Sometimes they used a whole fleet plus 15-passenger vans for a tour stop.
Every now and then, I'd get some interesting phone calls. At that time, no one had cells, so we used land lines, car phones, and two-way radios, which meant that everyone in all the cars plus everyone in the office could hear everything that was going on at all times, which was good, bad, and hilarious. Once, one famous group cussed me out on the radio because the driver got lost. I listened, laughed, got the driver back on track, and continued working. My boss shrugged and continued working. We let it all roll. We had to. Another famous heavy metal group called me at the office and had me cracking up so hard I got nothing done. Some other hard rockers, same thing. One comedian called me just to talk. I never knew.
It was a fun job, but I was on call all the time (yes, pager), and it was stressful. Fast-paced, let me tell you. I'd get paged for stuff like this: Tell the drivers to pick up firm hold hairspray for #11, the 8 passenger, 6 bottles of orange juice with no pulp for #10, a bottle of Beam for #12, and glitter and Camel nonfilters for #6. Make sure to have driver put the "just married sign" on the car where that small dent is so the clients don't see it. Thanks.
Since I was so young when I started, I didn't really know any other job. Every single weekend, I'd get knots in my stomach, trying to keep track of everything. I also didn't care much about being backstage or whatnot; I was so young, it never occurred to me that my job was strange. Mainly I hung out with the chauffeurs, who were awesome. Around forty of them.
When I think about it now, I realize how odd it was. We did have some good times. I'd tell some stories, but I'm like the chauffeurs...we did our jobs, and the rest was quiet. I will say this: I'm lucky to be here, writing to you.
Other than that, what goes on behind the partition stays there,
C.A. MacConnell
6/19/2017
Short Story: Jesus, Jimmy
Man, Friends and Seinfeld crack me up. Have you seen the Seinfeld about Jon Voight's car? Absolutely hilarious. They all are. That has nothing to do with the following story. Just a note.
I felt like a speed demon on the trail today. I was trying to catch up with the handsome/pretty one with the heart on his shirt. He didn't notice me. Ever. No matter how sweaty I got. Story of my life, ha. Really, he was pretty. I swear, I just wanted to know where he got his shirt. Or, if I could take it off for him, hahaha.
Sometimes, I think people are looking at me, and then I realize they're just looking at my Thomas the Train/Tank back pack. Hey, I may not be stylish, but at least I'm semi-original.
At least I got a good walk in. Hope you're reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR!
Hope you have better luck getting laid today than I did. Here is a fiction sample for you.-- C.A. Mac
Jesus, Jimmy
-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin
All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.
So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.
While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.
--
I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.
I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.
So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.
All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.
So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.
"Get in," she says.
I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.
Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.
Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.
“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.
I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.
“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.
When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.
Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.
“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.
Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.
“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.
“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.
“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.
“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.
“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.
I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.
When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”
“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.
We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”
Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.
I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.
When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."
But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.
Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.
"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.
"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.
"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.
"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.
The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.
Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.
Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.
"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"
Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.
I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.
"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.
Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.
"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.
-- C.A. MacConnell
I felt like a speed demon on the trail today. I was trying to catch up with the handsome/pretty one with the heart on his shirt. He didn't notice me. Ever. No matter how sweaty I got. Story of my life, ha. Really, he was pretty. I swear, I just wanted to know where he got his shirt. Or, if I could take it off for him, hahaha.
Sometimes, I think people are looking at me, and then I realize they're just looking at my Thomas the Train/Tank back pack. Hey, I may not be stylish, but at least I'm semi-original.
At least I got a good walk in. Hope you're reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR!
Hope you have better luck getting laid today than I did. Here is a fiction sample for you.-- C.A. Mac
Jesus, Jimmy
-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin
All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.
So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.
While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.
--
I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.
I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.
So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.
All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.
So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.
"Get in," she says.
I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.
Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.
Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.
“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.
I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.
“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.
When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.
Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.
“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.
Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.
“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.
“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.
“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.
“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.
“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.
I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.
When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”
“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.
We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”
Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.
I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.
When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."
But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.
Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.
"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.
"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.
"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.
"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.
The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.
Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.
Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.
"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"
Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.
I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.
"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.
Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.
"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.
-- C.A. MacConnell
6/17/2017
From the Hawk
Hello there. Hope you're peaceful and happy! Thanks for stopping by. Remind me to never again walk five miles in ninety degree weather after having a large coffee. Seems like it would be a no-brainer, right? Alas, I am soooooo stubborn. Once I get an idea, I troop on through regardless. Ha.
Just doing some writing practice today...keeping my brain in gear. Just wrote this poem right now. Been getting in the groove by working on some poetry. I like to do that to keep myself sharp. And I get lost in it, really.
I've also been reading some young adult books, tuning in before I revise the one I'm working on. Book 3. :) People are loving my second book, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, so make sure to get a copy. Go here!
Have a beautiful evening. -- C.A.
From the point of view of the hawk...
From the Hawk
Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day my Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.
C.A. MacConnell
6/16/2017
From the Wolf
Heya, a poem for you. Hope you like it. I started it last year sometime. I like it. -- C.A.
-- from the P.O.V. of the Wolf.
From the Wolf
You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.
C.A. MacConnell
-- from the P.O.V. of the Wolf.
From the Wolf
You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.
C.A. MacConnell
6/15/2017
Photo: Scorcher
Scorcher
This pic reminds of "Stand by Me" or "The Body," for those of you who are Stephen King fans. Here's a weird thing...when I was little (not sure how little, but little), my Dad was addicted to Stephen King novels. So, after he read each one, he retold the stories to me in this low voice that never varied. When telling a story, he never broke stride with that voice. My Dad is a master of telling jokes with a poker face as well. Anyway, I often begged him to tell me Stephen King's stories, and at first he always refused, but then he gave in. Every time. My bedtime stories = Stephen King. Hilarious. I loved it. I'm not sure if Dad told them accurately, but I was absolutely mesmerized. Later, of course, I read some King books on my own.
When someone asks me my name, one of my favorite responses is this: "I'm Christine, like the car." That's so people don't add the "a," which drives me nuts. I get "Christina" all the time. Why, I have no idea. Maybe I should go back to "Chris." Some people just call me "C.A.," which is fine, or "Mac." I bet Stephen King gets "Steven" all the time. Could be worse. I could be named, "Ima Gote."
Anyhow...
Speaking of awesome stories...yes...THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, both funny and spooky, is an awesome story. I'd love it if you'd join me on the adventure. Did you pick up a copy?
The signing's coming up..there will be some free stuff and surprises! Main Cup, Milford, OH, July 9, 5-7pm. Be there. :) Don't miss out!
I have low expectations, other than that I'm expecting to meet my true love there. And the stranger will appear out of nowhere and rise up out of the coffee shop and propose, I'm sure of it.
I hope we like each other,
C.A. MacConnell
6/14/2017
6/12/2017
Photo: See Where It Leads
See Where It Leads
My review: Megan Leavey and Rex could kick Wonder Woman's ass.
C.A. MacConnell
6/11/2017
Open House
Speaking of readings...are you coming to my book signing and reading Sunday, July 9th at The Main Cup 5-7pm, downtown Milford, Ohio? Celebrate the release of my second novel, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! Some free snacks, coffee, books, and a portion of the proceeds go to The Prospect House.
And yes,...there will be another surprise for you if you come, so don't miss out!
Here's another poem for you. More recent writings. I dig how this one turned out:
Open House
I think you would
like this place.
Shower water turns cold to shock.
Think short, kid fingers
burning in the snow.
I slip into my blue jacket.
I lace up my combat boots.
Outside, some windows slide open,
and the rest resting slam
shut. Somewhere, sweat
darkens a neck. Others
surely shiver home, straight
into the vein. Scattered in the square,
sleeping on benches,
tattooed girls cross and uncross,
pulling at wide-stretched
ears, twitching and laughing
near lonely, old men. Late skater boys
fuck, snake, paint, relate.
One of them, the smallest,
a half-finished painting…
well, he looks like you –
gaunt and buried within a yellowish glow
of lamp. I want to walk
with you. I want to step
on the heels of your shoes.
Alone feels right in this artist
light. Muted, a heavy makeup, it hides
the deepest flaws.
A splinter breaks free.
Now it’s caught in my curls,
and love is the man
who finally pries it loose. Well, now I am
almost inside. I feel almost
pretty. I think you would
like this place.
C.A. MacConnell
6/09/2017
Photo: Thinking of You.
Thinking of You
<3 This was just some plant in a pot in the middle of downtown, but I thought there was something special about it, especially the shadows. :) Saw a deer, my friend Argo the dog, Moe the dog, my friend Jill, met a new friend, and I have a new rock. Also talked to some people about THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! Of course. Every day! Trooping along, feeling good. Hope you are as well.
C.A. MacConnell
6/08/2017
Photo, and a Note from Me to You.
I wrote the book for you.
I hope it becomes a movie someday.
That's my dream for THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. Have you read it yet? You can buy it right here.
I've gotten some feedback on the monster now. So far, people are hooked, and they love it. I'm thrilled. And these are people who have never been skateboarding. It's all about the characters, see...they're special. It's about scene, voice, getting lost in another world. :)
You are special as well,
C.A. MacConnell
6/06/2017
Hi! Here Are Some More Shots That Inspired the Book!
Last of the bunch of photos, for now. Some more photos that inspired THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. DO YOU HAVE YOUR COPY YET. It's genius, amazing. :) If I do say so myself. Ha.
I gotta get outside. Too much computer staring. Time to search for hawks and turtles.
Love you,
C.A. MacConnell
6/05/2017
Some More...
Another photo that inspired THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR.
And another ...
None of the guys I knew ever wore helmets, though, ha.
'Course we never used to wear them when we rode horses when we were little either. Or when we rode bikes. Everything used to be so much more dangerous. Also, we never picked up dog poo. That was dangerous as well.
Did you buy The Anchor yet? It's awesome!
C.A. MacConnell
6/03/2017
Photos Inspire Books!
One of the many photos that inspired my new book, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, which is mostly set in Seattle in the nineties. I'm often inspired by images. I'll be posting some more that complement the book this week.
Hope you enjoy the ride...the book and life in general. :)
Remember, through the end of July only, books sold online or at the signing July 9th (see featured blog for more details) will benefit The Prospect House, a long-term drug/alcohol treatment facility. Get your copy now!
If you have a copy, after you read, please leave a comment/review on Amazon! That would be awesome.
Thanks and have a special day. Magic, creation, nature, whatever you wish,
C.A. MacConnell
6/02/2017
Photos: June Walk
I just like these simple little pics, just the feel. Hope you do too. They make me feel peaceful. Sending out peace,
C.A. MacConnell
Photo: No Crybabies
Ha, hells yeah! Well, this applies most of the time. The other part of the time, feel free to cry your eyes out. Only not at the tattoo parlor...then you're just a wussy.
Hope you have an awesome day! Hope you're reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! You will be amazed before you're halfway through, I promise.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell