Age And Delusion

,Books rest akin to athletes who have run their races. Frank rubbed his palms and fingers across pages, gone yellow, marked in time. Frank waiting to die, his music, the lingo of his generation dissolves in a fine funnels of mists. Buildings, gray markers the granite cracks, are the only things anchored in time. They will last longer than Frank. Frank finds himself staring, eyes parked on various items knowing they'll outlast him. They'll be in the air, feel the heat from the sun the cold of winter. A body bundled, hanging in a doorway swing in silhouette. Frank was drawn to it. The beer bottle rolled from the palm of Franks's hand. Sitting there he recalled the first time he popped his cherry at 16 with Janna. . . . The lights came up and Frank stumbled to the street. The beer joint a half a block up the street was bathed in yellow light. Frank found himself very thirsty.

1Hit Wonders

They took the stage, aged "One Hit Wonders," their skin happy to be under stage lights again. The band, singers no set order. I'm producing the show. It's playing in my head. You could hear Cliff Knoble and "The Horse" to "Where A Flower In Your Hair" Scott Mackenzie. Artifacts like tattered bits of paper and cloth. Reproductions of long gone buildings on Sunset Blvd. rebuilt in my head. Transparent somehow so real my fingertips can dance over the granite blocks at Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard. No 1-800 number and $9.95 needed. Sit back, check the road and listen to the one hit wonders in my head.

BBQ

Frank waited in line. The windows on each cubicle were filthy, glazed white ribbed glass. They gave off vibes of boredom and misplaced authority. A fat woman, black butch hair stubbles of hairs on her upper. She told Frank to sit down. He held his paperwork in his hand and a black pen, stamped on it in gold letters, "Property Of US Government." Tiny by breads of sweat started to pop up over her lip like some source had turned on a small sprinkler system. Frank felt pity and boredom for her in her tight blouse holding two large masses passing as breasts. Frank knew they were implants. She had black and gold pins for years of service to the Feds. Frank hated interview shit, however it was the only way to keep the unemployment checks rolling in so he filled out the form. He slid the papers across her desk. She flicked her pen. Her faced turned red. I'm not sure I understand one of your answers." "Getting blasted and chasing pussy. Mam, what is it you don't understand?" The woman behind the desk started a Tsunami of sweat pouring across her greasy, dark hair. Her elephant size dimpled arms rested on the desk. Frank thought, if you could stand the flab hanging on her, she be would be like working your way through a fat covered spare rib thick BBQ sauce and pan grease along with buckets of cheap beer. There was nothing there except to get it off and move on. Although, Frank wondered if she could get something over on the Feds? Before leaving he handed her his paperwork, "meet you at your place at 7 tonight," he whispered. She gave a little laugh coming out like Tommy Gun onG helium and slid him paper with her address scrawled in childish handwriting. After 2 six packs he knocked on her small apartment door. Three hours later he stumbled out of her coop, BBQ juice dripping from his face. The last site he remember this fat body sitting cross legged on a day bed holding her fat little feet with sausage fingers. Frank stumbled down her driveway turned and retched so hard his stomach felt like it was being forced out his mouth. He had defiled God's oil tanker. Punishment? To be set a drift in a moral dingy on the universal sea of shit.

TRAIN TRACK

Bolted down, a rust burnt frame, like an overcooked french fry The box ,once painted fresh green now covered by and gang art and graffiti, lurches like a stumbling pachyderm against the mid day shimmering sun, The cars's jerk forward banging and screeching brining the three struggling men in to Frank's view as he sat among the brown weeds and oil covered earth. Sounds of flesh under truck tires wet and sucking chicken bones cracked splintered thrown in a huge grinder. Taking it no longer, Frank pushed up from his knees, galloped down the hill like the four legged beast he became He wades in the feeling fresh air on his blood cut knuckles. Through rage and injustice Frank puts the two thug men from a bad early MGM movie down. The first one small, almost underdeveloped with a high forehead and short deformed arms. The other reedy, thin and a natural shark type likes to partner up with other feral human beings to drink the honey pot dry. Frank hoped they had a good taste; he hoped it would be their last.