Straight from the edge of ruin.

The Sturgeon

Sturgeon

“YOU LOOK GOOD!” This horrible queen named Shane yelled at me from the cabin hatch of the boat. There was no reason for the volume but maybe it was the only way he could hear himself above the ever-present white noise of his internal scream. He always screamed.
There were five of us on Jim’s sailboat and I was sitting at the stern, soaking the fungus-infected toes of my left foot in the water. With no wind we were barely moving, a tiny trail of wake behind us. It was very quiet.
I’d just gotten done with a short lecture on how although Lake Michigan wasn’t the ocean exactly, it was still a questionable environment, and although it had no sharks other prehistoric shit did live in it, like Sturgeons.
These Sturgeons, I informed my captive audience, had been known to attack humans, and although it was usually small children and babies that were pulled from the shallows to their deep and no doubt gruesomely prolonged watery deaths, the occasional adult male had also been known to fall prey to the ugly beast. They never eat women, I said pointedly, they don’t like the tits. I said this cause there no women on board and none of the guys that were, liked tits either. They nodded in agreement with the fish.
Shane was stoned, making him vulnerable and paranoid, and had pulled his feet from the water and retreated to the cockpit. The subsequent flattery he directed at me served to deflect and change the subject. I went along with it.
“Well actually I always look good,” I responded, “It’s just that the awareness that I am probably the most fundamentally and in all ways, spiritually, physically and mentally, beautiful human being that you could ever to dream of coming across in your life is a concept so complex and overwhelming that to even ponder the possibility of its factuality would set in motion a domino effect of cause and effect so staggering that it couldn’t help but utterly undermine the fragile house of cards of thought and belief without which you would hardly be able to face the break of day. An all consuming and chaotic whirlwind of doubt and confusion would so undermine even your most basic human functioning you would be left bedridden and stewing in your own filth. Fact,” I added.
“WTF?” said Jim.
I usually didn’t rant like that but I was drunk. I was also annoyed by the queens on board and decided to jump into the water for a swim. Before I got wet though I performed a take-back, a take-back was when you said something you’d like erased so you just pretend you didn’t say it by saying something completely contrary. It was a trick I got from my sister who frequently spoke out of turn.
“I said, if I may repeat myself, thanks man it’s probably the new Ray-Bans” and with that I slipped over the side.
The boat still wasn’t moving but Jim turned it into whatever wind there was, (sloughing the sails), and dived in also. The other three stayed aboard, Steve, Jeff, and Shane, fearing the Sturgeon’s bite I suspect.
I paddled away from the boat and floated on the surface of the warm water. The sky overhead was as blue and cloudless as it had been for the last month or so? It’d been a great summer for outdoor activities and wildfires.
I’d kicked my way a good distance from the boat, I could see Jim scrubbing at the hull, and the heads and arms of the others lounging aboard.
The surface of the water was covered with little carcasses, the remains of some non-indigenous invasive species. All these idiot creatures would make their way into the Great Lakes through the Saint Lawrence Seaway, only to end up as beach litter. Alewives, Zebra mussels, AIDS infested syringes.
I felt a sharp pain in my foot, not pain really, more like an intense vibration, electrical shock. Some underwater fuck had bitten me, some freak fish. I kicked my legs hoping to scare it off. The water splashed and rippled around me.
I paddled back to the boat, not using my legs. I didn’t want to re-engage the hostile fish or whatever. over to Jim, “Scrubbing off those floaties?” I asked Jim, referring to the little carcasses stuck all over the hull, who was doing just that. “Yeah, I don’t know what they are” He says, “Some lower order, maybe junior Sturgeon spawn,” He smiles, “I think you scared the girls with that fish tale.” He nods above.
“Well, actually that story may have been fortuitous. Some thing did just bite me,” I awkwardly stuck my foot of the water, causing my head to dip under for a second.
“Fuck Morey, you’ve been ravaged!” Jim hollered as I resurfaced. The boat tilted sharply as the boys leaned over the side to see what’s going on.
I pushed against the water with my hands, keeping myself afloat as I inspected my ravaged ankle. The flesh is ripped open and I’m pretty sure I can see bone, lots of blood. It’s bizarre that I don’t feel anything. Jim is kicking his legs and looking around like he’s expecting to see Jaws. I look up at the three horrified faces peering over the side of the boat, “Sturgeon,” they whispered in unison.
.

Bike Harvesting

My friend Sue and I harvested 127 bicycles from an old man’s sheds and garage. He’d been collecting them for decades and apparently decided to retire this hobby/obsession. There were a few mountain bikes nad BMX’s but most were at least 25 years or older, cruisers, sting rays and triangle frames. Lot’s of parts too, forks, handlebars, fenders, chainguards and seats. It was fun digging through all this stuff but sort of horrible too.
First up we had to lay down planks so we didn’t have to trudge through all the mud and water from melting snow. The sheds were homemade and almost maze-like. The bikes were all atngled into each other and some were frozen in the ground which was covered with cat and squirrel crap. They stunk. Also the roofs were caving in and Sue sometimes had to use a bike or the top of her head to hold them up.
I refused to go inside the sheds and instead took on the job of wheeling or carrying the bikes across the plants, then loading them into the truck and trailer we had borrowed. I think it took us about four trips.
The old guy seemed suspicious and always oversaw the action with a big rusty axe hanging from his hand. He’d hack at ice with it once in awhile.
The goal of all this of course is not to take on the old dude’s madness but to work on them and sell them, as is, customized or for parts. Many of the frames are perfect for fixed gear fanatics. We may put together a crew of rentals also. Sue’s already sold a couple but won’t be open for business til May. She can be reached at , e-mail sue.bikeyard@gmail.com. I myself already have something in mind, but I ain’t telling anyone.

bai ling tribute poems

#1
skankasian
at birth
no hong kong garden
for this rare.

lotus blossum
or apple
not cherry
well maybe but.

rotted and reborn
shedding
the reptile skin
emerging.

as pure light
she embraces all
including
the bad traffic.

on sunset blvd.

———
#2

before
the signal reaches
her blackberry
it moves across.

her pudendum which
ejaculates
a snail
alone and small.

but not
for long as
an army of warriors
emerges from.

her bunghole!

—————-
#3

born in bangcock
or not
some asian burg
anyway.

emerged from
the septic pools
almost not human
amphibious.

with a heart
so dark
and a
love so strong.

but not
for you
this planet
cannot contain.

bai ling!

———————————
#4

grass mat
gummy rice
and one
sad garment.

never foiled
the dark plan
of a sister
brothermother’s.

escape
from the faux
spanish architecture
of socal.

blood-soaked
sheets or
at least
pillowcases.

trailed
across the garden
where
nude she emerged.

in a neighbors pool.

———————-
#5

as if
lit from within
her
tigerzebraleopard.

striped bikini
glowed
or growled
to the unwelcomed

.
votive candles
lit
tiny brush fires
until.

the hills
fired up
and the
white man fled.

bai ling laughed.

#6

a crate
could
not contain
the rotted petals.

of a spirit
that slid
through
gelatinous.

undersea creatures
forcefully
but unsuccessfully
injecting.

their rotted
ideals
and aesthetics
all gone wasted

on
the shiny
brightness
that is.

bai ling

————-

#7
anyone asian
or not
will tell you
the pagoda.

is not
where you learn
that all
is not.

so welcome or
not
you make camp
under the underpass.

and do not
allow
the day
to dictate.

whether you
turn left
or right
duck quick.

bai ling
—-

#8

klieg lights
scan
the sky for
ufo’s?

anything alien
pre-exists
on our
little planet.

wanna fuck
with me?
you know
not to.

cause
the smile
hides
a knife.

hooray bai ling!

__________________________

#8

klieg lights
scan
the sky for
ufo’s?

anything alien
pre-exists
on our
little planet.

wanna fuck
with me?
you know
not to.

cause
the smile
hides
a knife.

hooray bai ling!

Bible Campers

I was sitting in front of the gallery. The air was hot. A woman on a Segway sped by and I mentally called her a lazy bitch.
I could’ve crossed the parkway and jumped in the bay to cool off, but I try not to do that. The bay is gross. Jet-ski oil scum floats over water filled with invasive foreign creatures like Zebra Mussels and Alewives. These creatures come into Lake Michigan to breed and die. Rumor has it that the mussels will crawl up into a woman’s vagina and lay eggs. The Alewives are large sardines that also die then wash ashore. The sun dries them out and then dogs eat them. They stink.
People piss and crap in the bay too—The beaches were closed five times over the summer cause of high turd counts—They line their powerboats along the shore, crank up conflicting music, drink beer, and use the bay as their personal toilet. They are fat.

I sat in a ripped out canvas beach chair, my ass-bone numb on the pavement. The heat had me drugged. I saw a school bus turn into the street and start a slow roll towards me. I imagined it not stopping and me not moving. I imagined me being rolled over by it.
The bus pulls over and stops. Bodies pile out and start heading my way. They had to be on their way to the Midway for the rides and weird food.
I watched as they split into groups of two or three and keep moving towards me. The first batch stop in a semi-circle around me. They look young, and from my vantage point, weirdly tall. I’m reminded of this fifty-foot woman movie where all the teenagers got too tall for clothes and had to wear outfits made from movie theatre drapes. They lived in the movie theatre cause it was the only building in town with a ceiling high enough. Fun I bet, being a great big teenager. “Hi, how are you sir?” Says a girl with yellow teeth. It’s a mistake, calling me sir, but I let it slide. She’s just greasing me up by pretending to be interested in me anyway. She wants something.
“Are you hitting on me?” I say before she can get anything else out.
“Uh no” she says looking around for cues from her friends. The Segway lady zooms by again and I could swear flips me off. “Did you see that?” I ask.
“What?”
“Never mind, continue with your flirting,” I say dully, I was probably just imagining it.
“Do you know where we can get a soda?” One girl asks and gets eyeballed by the one with the teeth.
“I mean, have you been saved?” she says.
“Sure,” I say with a dismissive hand, and they move along
Another group approaches “Hello sir, we’re from a bible camp and we have to go around delivering the message, you know, about the lord, and we wanted to know if we could practice on you?”
“Well I wouldn’t mind but a bunch of you already hit on me, so no,” It’s too bad that they came late. I like that she said have to.
It appears that I’m looking at them but actually I’m looking above their heads at the banner trailing behind a small plane, TERROR FREE GAS AND CONVENIENCE, it reads. Convenience is something we all like, and I doubt anyone would argue about terror free anything. They’re advertising the obvious. Something you can’t sell.
“What do you mean, hit on you?” she doesn’t get it but the other two are smirking.
“They gave me their spiel,” I say.
She doesn’t know what this means either. I almost feel like I should let her run thru it, for practice, like she said, but I don’t.
The plane has passed. I’m staring directly into the sun, I look away and am blind.
“NEXT!” I shout.

Roxie drops by

Rain was hitting hard and loud .If I didn’t do something, the place was gonna be invaded by non-customers seeking shelter, not art. So I went around locking doors, and then, just in case anyone had snuck in without my awareness, I also did a quick tour of the entire building, gallery, bathrooms, and office. Lastly I open the door to the old walk-in safe. Inside I found what appeared to be a woman, squatting against the far wall. She barely had clothes on and was so darkly tan I couldn’t clearly make out any features. I’d seen her around town though, I recognized the cowboy boots and big hair.
“This isn’t a toilet babe.” I tell her.
“I’m hiding,” she says, “You’re an asshole.”
She sounds clear enough, I was expecting something more primitive, grunts and the like, maybe a low moan, mental patient conversation.
“Well whatever load your dropping don’t chuck it at me please.”
It occurs to me she may be in danger or something, maybe I am. “Do you need help, the police?” I ask her. I imagine her as insane, throwing feces around, or maybe pulling a knife. I step back secure in the knowledge that I can slam the heavy door shut, locking her in, and I do just that. I shut her in. She’s a loose cannon, I’ll figure out what to do about her later.

I pass by the entrance vestibule and am stopped short by a loud rapping against the glass of the door. Pressed against it I make out a loud coat and a blond hairdo getting undone by the rain. It’s Madonna’s Mom. I’ve met her once or twice, so I open it for her. She’s got a purse dog hanging out of her purse. I reach to scratch its head and it snaps at me.
“What are you doing in town?” I ask, cause even though she’s just a part-time resident she should still know to avoid the city this week.
“I have to pee Mike,” she squeezes past me and I relock the door. I’m pleased she remembers my name. I like Madonna’s Mom. I smell liquor as she hurries past.

I’m pondering the situation in the safe, thinking maybe I should let her out. She could run out of air, or something, make a mess. This is what I’m wondering but I’m not taking any action. I’m just leaning on the bar pretending to be listening to Madonna’s Mom gripe about that phony English bitch.
“You like a cocktail?” I ask her although I’m thinking she doesn’t really need one.
“As long as it ain’t wine,” she laughs and takes a playful swing at me, which I dodge with a quick intake of breath. They own a vineyard.
“You sure? We got cherry in the house,” I’m kidding, the cherry wine is disgusting, syrupy and sweet, fuel for an assured hangover.
“Ugh,” She says.

“Hey where’s your dog?” The little rat hound she came in with is nowhere in sight.
“I don’t know,” she says leaning over the bar, “ and I don’t really care, that phony English bitch gave it to us.” She adds with an exaggerated eye roll. I replenish her drink, a highball made of pomegranate juice and lo-grade vodka. I like to counterbalance the destructive elements of alcohol with ludicrously healthy mixers. I tell her she can just say it disappeared into an art gallery. It died for art. I go looking for it anyway.
I find the dog sniffing around the safe. The woman has vanished but the mutt appears to have discovered whatever treasure she left behind. Right now I’m wishing I’d never said I’d man the gallery during Cherry Festival week. The owners wanted to just close it for the duration, and had left town. I don’t like being responsible. I could delegate, or I could call the police, but I can see that getting real complicated with accusations flying about god knows whatever some crazy, bony, beach slut can come up with. The police have procedures; they have to follow through, whereas us citizens can, if we’re sneaky, do just about whatever we want.


In the backroom I find the woman having her ear bent by Madonna’s Mom.
“Who let you out of your cage?” I ask.
“Clever,” she says rather calmly, “It’s raining heavily and I was hoping for a respite.”
“You didn’t lock the door you know,” she adds, “closing it is not locking it.”
She’s actually talking down to me. I can either flip out and look like a doofus or I can go along with her normal lady routine and see what happens. She just shit in the safe, and now what? I’m supposed to offer her a beverage. “Call me Roxie,” she tells us. Madonna’s Mom says, “I’m Betty,” which I’m glad of cause I forgot her name.
“Well Roxie,” I ask, “Would you care for a soda?”
“Do you two have a history or something?” Betty asks, looking at me, eyebrow arched.
“Well Betty” I start, “This crazy freakshow bitch, not ten minutes ago, was taking a dump in the gallery safe, so if that’s history we have it. She took a shit, and I saw her do it.”
“Well then,” Says Betty.
Roxie’s doing exactly nothing but looking at me with what reads as disdain. What’s that about? Is pooping randomly in people’s place of business normal in her strange, no doubt drunk and violent beach-whore world? I suppose it seems more civilized than just dumping behind a bush or a boulder. I really don’t even know if she did poop or not, I just figured that that’s what she was up to. What else could she have been up to, squatting like that, having a baby?


The little rat dog skitters into the room with something hanging out of its mouth. I can’t tell what it it’s got but Betty takes Roxie by the hand and starts whispering loudly. I’m tempted to warn her that close proximity isn’t advised when Roxie starts screaming, “GET HER AWAY GET HER AWAY FROM ME!!” She takes refuge in a couch at the other end of the room and I ask Betty what the hell she said to her. “I just told her not to worry, that in Heaven the angels eat the babies,” She answers sweetly. This is news to me but, who am I to question it, Betty’s a Catholic and I’m nothing. Besides I’ve heard stranger religious proclamations.

“Hey Betty, Where’s that thing your dog had?”
“The preemie?’ She says, “I chucked it out back, and the mutt followed.”
“Did you fling it away from the building?” I’m hoping, “The baby, not the dog.”
I really don’t want someone coming across a discarded fetus outside the gallery, so I take a look, but there’s too much rain. It was still coming down hard, like a wall, but it was also creeping along the ground. Refuse floated. I saw a big dirty bra with a half eaten corn dog stuck to it float by. I shout out DoggyDoggyDoggy, just in case it’s within hearing range, and then shut the door. I’m sure it’s off in search of food.