THE EBBS AND FLOWS OF ZIGGY SAWDUST AND THE TERMITES FROM URANUS

Originally printed in the December 1998 issue of Rolling Stone Magazine.

It’s pit stain hot as it tends to be in Los Angeles on any given day, but as faded and fabled rocker Ziggy Sawdust pulls up to the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset just past Doheny and gets out of his 1987 MG convertible, his lanky stature blocks the sun.  Coincidence? Or is the sun as afraid of this gangly, obtrusive, recluse as we are? He shuts the door as his rusty little car puffs exhaust like it’s an exact personification of Ziggy himself; he tells me later in the interview his “day car” is in the shop. He has the disheveled look of a man who was born on a bender, a man who’d drink gasoline if he couldn’t afford booze.  His eyes are bright blue with distinct gray webs piercing through like the Copenhagen Chaw that fills his mouth thought it could escape through his iris. He walks with an unearned arrogant swagger and wears leather pants so tight his little rocker screams for air.  This is the look of a could-be rocker; a would-have-been rocker; a just missed it kind of guy.

He puts himself in the category of “should-have-been U2” band; Shook Up! He says he is better then “almost-was Def Leppard” band; Anvil! And he says he’s inspired more bands with his 1970 debut album “Ruby Cats,” then XTC inspired in their whole career.  He balks at the topic of David Bowie and wretches at the similarities between their stage creations.  He cites foul play all the way. His graying mane of confused locks is offset with a red velvet headband. He walks over to me with a stuck snarl that spits at God and seems to say “Yea, I’m Ziggy Sawdust, now fuck off!” We head towards the back of the Hamlet and I let Sawdust chose the table.  He dramatically pans the restaurant as if to avoid glances from his never-were and never-wanted-to-be fans, and sits at a table right in front of a wall sized poster of “Jailhouse Rock”- era Elvis Presley prancing about on his tip-top-tippy toes.  The first thing he says in his Cockney accent is “Ya know I met Elvis once, daft prick he was, didn’t see what all tha’ fuss was ‘bout.” 

The elusive Ziggy Sawdust, thank you for sitting down with me today.  Before we dive into it full force I feel obliged to say I’m a fan; a part of your cult following. There is little written about your early life, and I’m sure the public as well as myself would love to hear about your origins. 

 
Origins huh? Well I wasn’t bitten by a spider with Hep C or shot to earth in a crusty comet from Pluto; nothing that unique.

I was born in the rookery, aka the East End basically outside Middlesex, a nice place for prostitutes and criminals and a goldmine for Jane’s and John’s and the sorts. It definitely wasn’t the posh breeding ground for London’s elite, and I was under no presumptions as such. We was poor. There wasn’t even a shitter in my flat; I’d have to go to the communal down the hall where I learned about the ins and outs of intercourse on account of their being no god damned door on the stall.  I’d stand there as some old bugger would shove his rusty knob into the quivering gash of some young twist.  Seriously I’d be holding me bowels as I’d watch his ballbag slap back and forth on her diseased fanny, and all the while think, “well this is life.” That was the only upbringing I needed to figure out life had dealt me raw and I needed to use my talents to escape the filth I’d been birthed in. 

 
Tell us a bit more about your formative years.  Were there any influences or encounters at an early age that may have shaped who you’ve become?

 
Ahh I see, how subtle mate, you don’t want to hear about my upbringing in the Mid - you want to hear about good ol’ Davey and his life 15km south in peaceful Brixton.  They all do; that’s what they want to hear. I suppose I’ll indulge you.

David Bowie and I met under artistic circumstances, both taking piano lessons from the same barmy arsehole. His lessons were directly after mine and we’d encounter each other on the regular. Yea, me and Bowie was a passing relationship, fueled by interest in the arts, and circumstance, and thievery. I’d share my drawings with him, drawings that eventually inspired both my and his future stage act and he’d play riffs for me on the pocket guitar he carried about like it was a golden nut sack.  We had an understanding and an appreciation for a quarter of an hour every week. 

 
As far as what I’ve read you two haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years, what are your feelings towards him?

 
He’s alright mate - just the sod responsible for me being in the gutter while he sucks sashimi off the indigenous nipples of black super models.  A right twat for his thievery and a genius at the same time…if only I’d known our friendship was a ruse that would last me miserable life. Next question.

 
There has been hearsay, myth, and blatant lies floating around about the origins of your name ever since you emerged with accusations towards Bowie. What’s the real story?

 
Right, well, that’s a real simple and clear-cut case, mate.  I was born Ziggy Martin Tommelson February 8th, 1947 just outside of Middlesex, as I stated before.  I came screaming out of my mothers gash a slimy rock n’ roller from the start.

As a result of my mother’s indecent excursions with the opiates and my fathers pre-occupation with creating shit for shit men in his woodshed behind the shack we lived in, I wasn’t born in a hospital.  I came sliding out onto his workbench, right into a fresh pile of sawdust to make for a soft landing and the like…guess we was out of blankets that day.  I looked like a midget sandman, as I rolled around sticky afterbirth clinging wood chips to my naked body. The neighbors reported the screams I echoed were so evanescent, they wanted to get my little claws to sign a record deal right then and there.  My parents stifled me though; they didn’t see my God-given talents and resorted to calling me “Sawdust,” as a result of the pile I was born in and the importance they placed upon my being, which is to say quite obviously, not much.  

Growing up I couldn’t help but be obsessed with the nickname.  It was shrouded in animosity and contempt because I was another lousy mouth to feed.  It ate at me for years, but eventually grew to define me.  If my parents saw me as sawdust, I would show the world that powdered wood was the mutt’s nuts.  From that realization on the 13th year of my existence and forevermore, I went by Ziggy Sawdust.  I would create characters and the like in my notebook of what I aspired to, and I’d sign them all glam and proper in my newly penned name.  That bugger Bowie would sit amazed….little sparkles going off in his starman eyes as I’d create my new persona, and it was a right cock-up that I ever shared it with him. If I had known all these years later I would be the one fagging for him, then things would have gone differently, you can rely.

 
Tell us more about why you believe Bowie stole your image and just when the inception of this idea happened.

 
I just told ya, he’s a prat, stole it from me in our piano lessons.  Are you daft mate? Anyway he is a smeg - no he’s less than a smeg.  I showed him Sawdust in privacy, I thought he was one to be trusted, but instead he stole me from me right under my own nose.  Is it a coincidence Ziggy Stardust is so close to Ziggy Sawdust, a man from Uranus sent back to help earth during it’s last few days of existence? Christ the names are nearly fucking identical….so Stardust is from another planet and dressed a bit more fruity pebbles than myself - he’s a thief.  Uranus is fitting for me though, since it’s a commentary on the stinking hole I was hatched from.  I haven’t seen ma and Pawdust in nearly 20 years and it’s been better than the 20 before. I don’t want you to get all analytical on me and start scrutinizing my past though.  They’ve done that before; they’ve all done that before, and that would be the end of this here sit down.

Ziggy Sawdust- Spaceman 

1972 

Amongst the cult group of fans you have, you are known for your outrageous stage shows.  There is a striking resemblance to Bowie’s stage shows in them.  How do you explain this?

 
I see you’ve done exactly no research at all into my personal history mate….I appreciate you taking the time to waste mine.  You’re just another Bowie historian looking to crush the myth and the man behind his successes.

Well how is this for striking resemblance?  I debuted my stage show Ziggy Sawdust and the Termites from Uranus on January 9th, 1972 at the Tabernacle in London.  That is almost a whole month to the day before Bowie pranced out on stage at the Toby Jug Pub in Tolworth appearing like a gothic lesbian hooker.  Do the studying professor - look it up on microfiche at the Rock n’ Roll library, consult a paper or two.  I was getting write-ups about my extravagant stage show days before his was blowing up across the nation. 

As for specific similarities in our act, just look at the facts.  I gave actual oral sex to my lead guitarist Ron Braxton on stage during our first show.  What did Bowie do?  He simulated oral sex with a guitar….save it for the cheap seats mate, go home if you ain’t got the yarbles.  I stripped down nude and wrestled stacked females on stage; Bowie just put on some knickers and pretend-fought like one of those large asian wrestlers with their pants shoved in their crack.  I threw wood into a chipper and blasted the audience with the dust my name was created from.  Bowie spattered glitter around like a tired Johnson during sloppy seconds.  You be the judge. 

 
Tell us about your latest record “The Man Who Shaved the World,” - is this meant to mock Bowie, or is this a serious album?

 
It’s a good album. This is not a ruse ya twat.  If Bowie can chase my career and create a life of candy corn for me as he swims in mars bars then I can surely answer back. “The Man Who Shaved the World” was an album I created while I was on the road literally shaving the world. 

I wanted to do my part and give back to the world that rejected me; prove to them I’m not the selfish man they pegged me for.  So I went to the worlds greatest third-world countries like Israel, and Africa, and that place with the leader who’s name sounds like dong, and I did my relief work.  These people are poor - what’s one thing they can’t afford besides food and shelter?  It’s fuckin’ steel blades, razors mate.  So I went to these places and I shaved the Yahuda’s beards; I shaved the scraggly beards on those dark saronged forest folk; I shaved the thin hairs on the rice lovers chins….I shaved the worlds beards.  Cleanliness is unparalleled and I was trying to do my part.  You know the #1 breeding ground for insects, bacteria, and mites? It’s long, scraggly, stringy bloody beards and it’s a serious problem.  So this album coincides with my journey with songs like: The Width of a Mustache, Growing Hair Blues, Naked Face Rock, and my personal favorite She Shook Me Bald. These are rock ballads about literally saving the world from it’s own putrid, diseased hair.

David Bowie recounts that you two did interact in the early 60’s but denies anything beyond an acquaintance.  When was the last time you two encountered one another and what’s the full story?

 
Fuck, it’s been some years now.  He avoids me like I’m a rat during that one plague.  What’s it, Bubonic? Whatever, if I’m the damned rat, mate, then he’s the flea clinging to my hairs and spreading the disease. 

That’s right, we was creative acquaintances sharing childhood dreams with one another.  I never said we was friends or best mates - just that we knew each other and he stole and manifested my livelihood.  Last time I saw the Thin White Crook was at my local church, Our Lady of Sorrow, when I was home for the holidays in December of 1980.  He was there raising charity for some small organization or something; he wasn’t shaving beards though, that’s for sure, just raising money by appearing somewhere.  A half assed ploy, if ya ask me. 

After the sermon, Bowie hung around to speak with his local fans.  I waited in line to confront the prick after all these years of trying to track him down, and when I got up to the front, he looked me up and down said “Nice getup, now here’s a true fan,” and then he preceded to ask me who he should make his John Hancock out to.  I told him “It’s me, it’s fucking Ziggy, ya bloody faker, take your Hancock out and let’s measure.” So I whipped out my flaccid meat and placed it on the table. And he looked me up and down…I saw the recollection and fear in his eyes…and as his security locked arms and started to drag me away, I managed to blow a load of sawdust in his squinting eyes.  There was little more seen of Ziggy Stardust after that incident.  He went on to create other characters, and of course we all know the fame of his later career, but it appeared I had won.  Though, people continued to look at me as a copy rather than the original.  And I got a lot of shit for taking my pecker out in the Lords House, but nothing else got through to the dense celebrity he’d become.  Everyone thought I was the fake…. they thought I was Andy Warhol, when I was really the fucking soup can.

 
What’s next for Ziggy Sawdust? And do you still have hope for you and your career? Why not try a different image at this point in the game?

 
Are you for real, ya suit? Are you really asking me this?

At this point in the interview Mr. Stardust becomes enraged and gets in my face.  He lumbers over the table and stumbles towards me as if to swing.  Instead, he swipes up his rocks glass, takes a small sip, and launches his Canadian Club at my face, cubes and all.  He puts on that famous snarl, kicks over his chair, and storms out of the restaurant, but not before doing two things.  On his way out he throws his empty glass at my back and shouts across the restaurant: “We are all copies of something…you’re just a writer, you’ll never be Hemingway.”

And I suppose he is right; I’ll never be Hemingway, and he’ll never be David Bowie - the most we can hope is that we are the most original versions of those we are overshadowed by.  There’s one thing you can say about Mr. Sawdust; he is an angry rocker with unproven talents who may or may not be the inspiration for David Bowie’s, Ziggy Stardust.  At the very least, he is a colorful character that skirts around the spectrum of pop culture.  He so violently skirts around the skirt that is pop culture that we should all charge him with statutory rape for licking all of our innocence raw. Yet there’s something intriguing and dreadfully positive about a man who won’t quit.  Perhaps he plays with all of our morbid curiosities, as we wonder just who in our lives we’ve encountered and inspired to greatness.




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Peter and Tim

Tim was 15 when he met the love of his life.

Peter was 33 when he met his.

They happened to be in the same tiny Huntsville diner, on the same gravel street, sitting at the same maple syrup covered table, both having an accidental conversation about the crispy, salty joys of bacon when love struck.

They didn’t arrive together, nor did either of them intend on sitting together. In fact the table that accommodated their fortuitous encounter was empty and unused for three whole days before they warmed its lonely seats. Table 11 at the local eatery was notoriously the worst table in the place; it was a staging slab for waiters to get their bearings before shuffling their piping hot dishes of pigs feet, or beef hash, or buttery grits to tables two, four, seven, nine, and everyone’s favorite: table five. 11 was a table with two wobbly leg and stains so thick they couldn’t be chiseled off with a razor blade. It was said to be made of layers upon layers of cheap impressionable balsa wood with only a thin pine top layer and a wax and shellac finish to disguise it’s shoddy craftsmanship. All the other tables were constructed from Ironwood taken from the most stubborn tree in the forest, the Ebony Tree. 11 was a table in desperate need of repair and a table only used on Sunday mornings after church when the influx of locals was at its most resplendent that it necessitated the use of a menial dining station. The waitresses would sometimes seat travelers and businessmen at the inferior table causing the locals to snicker amongst themselves because surely the wobbly, dirty, wood square promoted inferior conversation and an inferior meal as well. The table was so notorious at the diner in the bustling town that “table 11” became an expression, a local phrase slipped into everyday rambling which only the locals would understand. They would use it when talking business, such as: “hey don’t pull my leg and give me a number 11, when I am asking you the honest to God truth,” or “Charlie I ain’t going to the dance with you, why would I go with table 11 when I can go with the captain of the football team?” The table was an eyesore to say the least and surely not an appropriate place for such a serendipitous first encounter.


Tim happened upon the diner on that unseasonably warm fall day due to the intense post-football-practice-hunger of his inappropriately matched friends, Greg and Nicky Meadows - local star athletes, twin brothers, and class dunces. The boys matured much faster than Tim and often teased him about his lanky frame, soft cheeks, and flowing wheat colored hair. Tim didn’t mind though, he knew as other local teens knew, Greg and Nicky Meadows would stay in Huntsville their whole life, probably work on their fathers farm, have children much like themselves, and retire never having cared or lived up to their full potential. Alternatively, Tim would go to College and he would live in one of the big cities on the coast and he would continue to set goals for himself, constantly striving to be better as his potential would increase with his achievements. His ambition for himself was to mock the shelf life of a fine wine. Tim prided himself on his ability to focus and retain details others would overlook or simply find uninteresting. These were the precise skills he was currently using to excel into all AP classes at Grisson Virgil High School. This was a feat that Tim found particularly easy, and felt it could only bode well for his future endeavors. He never understood how he had maintained his friendship with the Meadows past their initial introduction at age two in the daycare center at Huntsville Memorial Hospital where their mothers worked the noon to midnight shift. As two year old Tim sat in a corner and put the finishing touches on a fire station built from outdated and worn Lincoln logs, the Meadow boys, in a roughhousing haze fueled by shot-gunning a 12-pack of Strawberry Kiwi Capri Sun’s, threw each other sidelong into Tim’s architecturally sound little building. To Tim’s chagrin they destroyed every log like oblivious, adrenaline fueled, toddler Godzillas. Tim was not one to hate or discriminate and the boys were no exception, he felt obliged to accept their sincerest apologies and indulge them as they insisted on using their Neanderthal-like little hands to re-construct that which they had obliterated.


This was the start of a relationship that was fueled by juxtaposition; Tim would paint a canvas of a peaceful stream and the Meadows would drown bugs in his oil paints. Tim would rehabilitate crippled animals he would find in the wild; the boys and their pump action bb gun were responsible for putting them there. Tim tried out for theater; the boys fell into football. Tim had never had a girlfriend; the boys had gone through nearly half the school, including two teacher aids during their 7th period gym class after being provoked by their football coach Mr. Fresco. Tim helped out at the Cedar Creek Home for the Aged, and the Meadows drove a few lucky octogenarians to senility with calls of “Old Bag,” or “Old Fart,” or “You’re more rickety than table 11.” Though for better or worse the three boys were bonded. The Meadows looked out for Tim and Tim told others of their often hidden soft side. He assured teachers, mail men, the local preacher, even the boys parents that they weren’t quite as cruel as they seemed. It was a friendship fueled by outsiders misunderstanding; nobody quite perceived them for who they really were. And on that specific Tuesday the Meadows and Tim entered the diner high off of 100 meter dashes, Redbulls and high school theatre respectively. Greg gave Tim a gentle yet annoying shove as they entered and Tim called him a freakish oaf, this was their relationship. The boys nodded to the day hostess Jenny and took their normal seat at the clean, pristine, and lucky table number 7; this had been their usual table since grade school only to be left for table 9 on particularly popular Sundays.

Peter went to Bluegrass diner every Tuesday to work on his writing, (usually fan fiction for defunct tv show Northern Exposure that he managed to get published in the local paper), but on this particular Tuesday he was meant to meet a client who never showed. Usually Peter met his clients on Thursday afternoons, but this high profile customer, (the mayor!), had requested a Tuesday meeting to accommodate his already scheduled Thursday bowling league. Peter would write on Thursday this week, he was nothing if not agreeable. He preferred to meet his clients at table five since it was closest to the restroom and a sensitive bladder was one of the many faults his father’s line of genealogy had blessed him with. Table five also overlooked a small oak tree in the front of the diner and was off the well-treaded path of the main aisle. It was quiet enough to hear his clients discuss their W-2 and the misplaced receipts from the money they donated to charity, but noticeable enough that service was prompt. Peter had misplaced the mayor’s number and decided, knowing full well that the mayor had a tendency to make people wait, that he would hold his table for 45 minutes before dismissing the meeting as a wash. He ordered coffee from his normal Tuesday waitress Tammy and sat nervously tapping his foot, this was his third cup of coffee today. He looked like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop in a room full of barefoot people; antsy to say the least.

After a good thirty minutes of waiting Peter decided his guest wasn’t going to show. He took out his notebook, asked Tammy for a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon, and was then perplexed with the question of what to eat. He thought of the other gift his stoic and emotionless father had blessed him with: high cholesterol, and he weighed rocketing blood pressure against the thought of chewing on wilted lettuce and shreds of carrots much like a frail rabbit. He’d been waiting long, he’d had oatmeal for breakfast that day, he’d taken his medicine already, his wife wasn’t here to monitor him; what the heck. He asked for two flapjacks, a pad of butter, two eggs over easy, and three pieces of crispy country bacon. He sat and salivated at the thought. As he begin to jot down musings on the joys of southern life two rambunctious hulks followed by a lanky and reserved teen entered the restaurant. They were seated two tables down from him in what he overheard very clearly was their normal spot. As he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to get much work done with thing 1 and thing 2 shouting from their perch, he wondered if there was a record in the Guinness book for fastest consumption of bacon and eggs. Peter made brief eye contact with the quiet boy and when it was returned he looked away immediately; if Peter was annoyed by his friends he surely didn’t want it to be obvious. He looked up again and the boy gave him a sympathetic nod that read “please don’t blame me for my dogs behavior.” Peter smiled and looked back down at his notebook, he decided not to judge this young man by the company he kept.

Of course society frowned on the mere interaction let alone a romantic love between an adolescent boy and a mature man of no relation, but fate is fickle and works in devious ways. It didn’t happen like you’d think, there were no predatory advances from Peter. In fact Peter was a perfect gentleman. He was the town treasurer for four consecutive terms. Paul Bishop challenged him once in the fall of ’07 preparing himself for a long, heated, turbulent, debate only to be swept by an 85% margin. Peter was the kind of guy who would mow his neighbors lawn because he already had the Craftsman out. He was the kind of guy who would let you have the parking spot at the grocery store if both your cars happened upon it at the same time. He was not a pushover, just a generous kind man who didn’t see the point in rushing through life. This was exactly the sort of thing his wife Nancy had at first loved about him but eventually came to loathe over the course of their ten years together. She wondered why Peter never got around to painting the family room like his brother did for his wife. She wondered why he had worked for the same accountant firm since she’d met him and never even entertained the thought of going off on his own. She even wondered why their routine in bed had become so routine she was able to make full detailed mental lists as to where she wanted to send their three year old daughter to preschool. She couldn’t find particular fault with Peter; he was a good father, a good provider, and a generous man, but she had stopped respecting him. This one thought ate at Nancy all day long and the more Peter tried to correct himself, to be bolder or more brash, the less Nancy cared about making their relationship work. As the situation escalated Peter began to enjoy his time in the office, at the diner, or alone time with his daughter more and more. Nancy was someone he still loved but no longer understood. They had met at Ohio State their sophomore year of college and hit it off instantly. Coming from similar backgrounds and both having an interest in the arts, (a major they both switched out of their junior year), their attraction was undeniable. College was a time to reinvent oneself. Little did Peter know that back home in Indiana Nancy was known as the “Harlot of Hebron,” and little did Nancy know that back in Kentucky, Peter was known as “The Dork of Danville.” He was a quiet boy who floated through life with books as entertainment, a mother who was a mute, and a father that never took an interest in him. Peter only now started to question whether people could be right for one another for allotted amounts of time. Were there expiration dates on relationships? This was a thought he often tried to work through in his notebook during the long hours he spent away from his home. No conclusion had been reached yet.

Tim couldn’t help but feel sorry for the clean-cut, bookish, man that sat two tables away from him and the Meadows. He knew how off-putting their behavior often seemed, and he felt horrible every time they so obviously disturbed someone. He tried to send looks of apology his way, and received shy glances back that said this strange man understood he couldn’t leash his dining partners. It only occurred to Tim after he had ordered an orange soda and a turkey club, and after he and his buddies were munching on fried okra that the man who kept giving him sidelong glances was none other than Peter Tearney, the town treasurer. He’d seen him at town hall meetings when Professor Grant offered extra credit for his AP American History class to attend. He’d seen his face plastered on yard signs when he was up for re-election. One wouldn’t go so far as to call him a town celebrity, but he was slowly making his way up the D-list.

Peter couldn’t understand what was taking his food so long. All diners specialized in breakfast, he hadn’t asked for turkey potpie, or chicken Marsala, or even Blue Grass’s special Pineapple Spam burger. This was bacon, eggs, and pancakes, it was like warming up a pop tart for any short order cook. Nonetheless his stomach continued to grumble. The only thing distracting him from his hunger was the game of “look and look down” he was playing with the young man two tables from him. He felt as if they were on the same level, like if his two giant counterparts weren’t there they would be sharing an intellectual conversation about foreign policy. Sure their conversation may start casual with a simple how’s the weather but they would instantly share a rapport that would lead them to commenting on the immense cumulonimbus cloud structures that had struck their town as of recent. The same clouds that brought intense rain and thunder which threatened to flood through the streets wiping out the small community forcing them to start from scratch like a modern day Noah’s Ark in a town-wide deluge. But his hunger consumed him, so he decided, even though it wasn’t in his character, he would take action. He looked for Tammy’s familiar crooked smile and peroxide blonde pixie cut, he even tried to wave one of the newer waitresses over. No success. They must literally be strangling a fresh pig for him he playfully thought to himself. Only upon a thorough gander around the diner did he spot two lone plates sitting on the crooked staging slab that was table 11. He put on his glasses and stood up to get a better look. Sure enough a plate with two pancakes, crispy bacon, and two large farm fresh eggs stared back at him like two giant sunny nipples.

Where the hell was Tim’s food? The twins had already consumed their massive, bloody, bacon blue-cheese burgers and moved on to rhubarb pie, but he hadn’t even received his meal. He sat there patiently as the twins played bloody knuckles in between bites of fruit and cream. This had been going on for some time and Greg’s knuckle had already popped releasing a flap of thin skin that hung like the plastic peel on the top of a cup of yogurt. Nicky’s knuckles had already bled over and started to scab but they continued to pound at each other like there was a pot of gold in the center of both of their palms. Tim looked around the diner, hoping to get someone’s attention. He glanced over to the man he now recognized as the town treasurer but he was no longer there. His notebook and briefcase were still propped open on his table, but where was he? Tim stood up to try and track down their waitress; he had never waited this long for a sandwich before. He walked towards the kitchen and saw Peter sitting at table 11; nobody sits at that table. Across from his plate of eggs was a perfect, fresh looking turkey club next to a heaping pile of steak fries.

“Is this yours?” Peter inquisitively asked. If his food had been left in the trenches perhaps this young mans had as well.

“Yea, I think it is, just left here huh?” Tim picked up a fry and eagerly crunched on it.

“Guess they just forgot to run it, this tables practically invisible to them sometimes.” Peter added.

“Mind if I sit,” Tim forwardly asked “I don’t want to get blood in my food.” They both laughed as they looked at the twins smashing their fists together and wincing with pain. Tim sat, and Peter settled into the booth further.

“Name’s Tim,” he confidently pronounced.

“Pleasure, I’m Peter,” was the retort. But Tim knew, he’d seen his face plastered all over town throughout his childhood.

Perhaps they would discuss clouds today; maybe they’d discuss a foreign conflict. Who knows what fate had in store for a love between a 33 year old man and a 15 year old boy. Maybe theirs was a relationship with an expiration set at 30 minutes, or maybe it would never expire quite like the always-fresh Twinkie. Either way both men were happy to speak to someone with something to say, to sit with someone who wanted to learn, and to eat across from someone who wasn’t shouting obscenities and beef patty into their face. The connection between them was evident and maybe people stared, or maybe nobody looked at them at all. Perhaps their meal was held at a dining station that was quite like a black hole sucking the small towns dirty secrets into it. As Tim picked at the bacon in his sandwich and watched Peter pour ketchup on his eggs he felt obliged to say, “So this is table 11 huh? It’s not so bad.”

The Sleep Cycles of Green Tea

The circadian rhythm of my body is off.

Watch the tea bag dangle and twirl about itself,
winter washed fingers twist the thin white thread.
Puddles circle outwards as the bag hits the water;
they hit the barrier reef.
Can it sense this joy?
A short lived half hour depending on the sips.
Like dipping your lower half into a
continuously draining jacuzzi.

My eyes droop,
I cant remember thoughts anymore.
My muscles feel weak,
I can’t support my own weight anymore.
Should I sleep?
Or dangle this tea
above the yellow water
and know it craves a bath.

It won’t submerge, for fear of getting its hair wet.
What’s so bad about the bottom of a cup?

Awfully cowardly for something that’s attached to a string.
How many times has it ever drowned?

A bag without a string, that I can understand.
I’d be more apprehensive about soaks if I didn’t have arms.

And the worst part? The ever-draining cup.
Just where does the water go when the mug tilts?

They come packaged, sealed tight.
They live in water, boiling hot.
They’re left alone, just soggy leaves when the water drains.
Like fall.
Then it’s warm for just one second.
Warmth like pissing oneself which then turns into
Just
A
Frigid
Odor.

What then of the short life of a bag of tea?
One bath and then a moist cold eternity of uselessness.
I rather stay in the warmth of the womb then.
Keep me in my packaging if that’s what life holds.

At least then I can sleep,
and dream,
and safely bathe without a string,
gently bobbing around with potential.
And when I’m ready,
perhaps I’ll grace you.
Or continue to bob around untested,
never leaving the warmth and security of
a tin of tea.

-655321

The Childish Endeavors of Emily Sue

Little Emily Sue was only but two,
when off with her finger she decided to do.
It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,
after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.

She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,
with the pain dying out it was time to move on.
She sharpened her knife with childish glee,
after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.

Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,
sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.
With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,
she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.

The innocent child handed over her art,
it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.
“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,
“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."

Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,
she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.
She took a small knife and slid from the counter,
and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.

Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,
with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.
Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,
off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.

A devious smile spread from right to left ear,
as she went to the shed before father could hear.
Her father he worked alone in their shack,
tinkering at cars to get his youth back.

She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,
“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”
Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,
she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.

He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,
the timing was right and Emily knew.
He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,
and lost his ring finger before he could think.

He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,
back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.
Her mother and father so tense with fear,
shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”

They stumbled about mad, like lumbering giants,
rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.
Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,
not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.

She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,
tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.
She looked at his face peaceful and small,
then down at his fingers she wanted them all.

That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,
only take the one, save the rest for the needy.
She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,
sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.

The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.
his little body was tough and able to fend it.
She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,
right into open arms and her wildest fears.

Her mother and father with knife in hand,
held her down hard and took a stand.
With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,
not realizing how or what this taught her.

When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,
she felt a great pain and started to vomit.
She looked at her palms and saw they were round,
her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.

She looked at the mantle and started to smile,
there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.
She examined them closely and hummed a light song
all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.

She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,
her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.
She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,
no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.

She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,
she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.
As she got older she never missed these thirteen,
for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.


-655321

Victor and the Drain of Possibilities

Victor squeezes a handful of Barbasol into his open palm, he rubs his thick calloused hands together and runs them over his clean bald head with precision, like icing a beige cake. He looks into the mirror staring past into the dark invading green surrounding his dilated pupils. He gets lost in the circular forest searching for answers as if the next step in his routine task has somehow deceived him. He glances at the taut skin covering his cheeks and nose, admiring how very few blemishes and imperfections he has at nearly 50 years old, and quickly wonders if in another life he could have been a model. Nothing extraordinary really, just magazines or a commercial or two, but could it have happened? Are we as in control of destiny as the self-help books collecting dust by his bedside let on?

Victor turns on the hot water and his gaze fixes as it goes from an erratic drip to a steady stream. Steam permeates from the tiny waterfall as droplets bounce off the silver plug exploding like little crystal meteors landing in a nearly invisible Pollock on the unpolluted porcelain. The drain is a wormhole, an expansive stretch in time he wishes he could jump down. As a child he remembers reading Alice In Wonderland and wishing there was a pill that could shrink him down much like the fictional girl allowing him to dance in and out of peoples lives unnoticed. As a young adult he went in search of such a pill but what he found never shrank his physical being, only his perception. As a man he’s given up hope that such an escape exists, yet whenever the water is on he takes out the drain and stares into the darkness. He still wonders if it holds possibilities. He thinks of his regrets. He wishes he had studied Physics in college, he wishes he had gone to college. He wonders if it’s too late to live a life much like Einstein, is there an age when the creative and mental possibilities cease? If he wrote a letter to Stephen Hawking, would he find a way to respond? Perhaps he’d send a well thought out Podcast through the mail.

He opens up the sterile medicine cabinet leaving an oily thumbprint on the bottom left corner of the mirror. Without looking at its contents his fingers navigate towards a shimmering silver straight razor resting on the bottom shelf. He grabs the razor by its sharpest edge with ease, and closes the cabinet. This is part of the routine. While setting the razor down on the perfect glossed white sink he notices the thumbprint, a dried disease on the pristine glass. The razor pokes his pointer finger as he reaches for a tissue to clean the smudge. He doesn’t wince or let out a noise, you could hear a pin made out of feathers drop on the carpeted floor of every room in his home. Never leave a trail- that rules been ingrained, nothing he needed to institute in his own home but an obsessive intricacy from work he’s somehow taken with him after hours like homework.

Staring at the small red bead rushing to the surface of his finger he watches as the blood spreads, now the size of a ladybug. He wants to tell this little lady to flutter her wings and fly away as fast as she can, if she knew what was good for her she’d leave and take solace underneath a flower petal in the park. He’s afraid she will wait too long and dry up, she’ll be stuck to him, stuck with him; its happened before. After all his hands were guilty of everything, they told the stories of a past he’d like to lose down the drain of possibilities. Their complexity reminded him of his own wrongdoings as well as the wrongdoings of an entire culture. He would often sit for hours staring at them, wondering if he’d miss them if tragedy struck in the form of a rusty machete. He’d seen TLC specials on phantom limbs, would he still try and clench a can of Coke even though his fingers were long severed and forgotten? Victor watches as the blood breaks from it’s perfect circle and follows the detailed patterns and life lines on his pointer; much like veins taking blood away from a failing heart, like ants following trails in a cheap plastic ant farm, like painting with watercolors on a sheet of brail. Victor concentrates on his finger too long. The blood dries up, and he looks uncomfortable like a man at a funeral for someone he’s pretending he didn’t know.

Victor recounts a tiny dark room; it’s long been abandoned. The only light illuminating the sparse dwelling is moonlight tearing through the roofs of two buildings across the way. He thinks it could be a room in a motel down the street from his childhood home, but he knows that isn’t true at all. There is a small twin bed in the far corner and a dusty Admiral turntable sitting on the nightstand separating the bed and the lone window. The record player is on but the needle loops around the outer rim continuously like it’s stuck in an unsolvable labyrinth. Victor wishes Johnny Cash was playing, he can almost hear Willy Nelson crooning something about Laredo but he doesn’t, it’s silent. He looks to the floor and sees his dark leather boots shuffling across the uneven rotting wooden floorboards. He gets down on the ground and sniffs an off-colored board. What is that? Victor recounts his face and sees a much younger man, still handsome, but twenty years more spry. He sniffs the spot again; his nose grazes the discoloration and takes away a sticky souvenir. He touches his nose and rubs the war paint, it’s not an unfamiliar color and texture. He knows this part of the memory; he’s been here before. The sparkle of something metallic catches his eye underneath the lone unkempt bed. Vic crawls closer as the dark red from the floor stains his torn blue jeans. His eyes start to tear up as he crawls closer and closer to a dark mass under the bed. He is on the battlefield of a great world war crawling towards screams and confusion, he’s waking from a dream where he’s fallen from a building and paramedics have scraped his lifeless body from shattered concrete. He remembered reading once if you died in your dream you’d never wake in life, yet he still sees something shimmer in the corner of his conscious eye. Victor starts to bang the floorboards and scream. The sparkling object is a shiny old watch attached to a limp wrist, attached to the body of a man: a dead man. Blood leaks from the back of the man's head like milk from a smashed coconut, it follows the grooves in the wood. Victor looks down at his hands with guilt, he doesn't remember picking up or firing the sticky dark pistol . He pulls the fragile man out from underneath the bed. His white t-shirt is stained with the rich innards of a wasted life. Victor performs CPR, he smacks the lifeless body around, his tears fall into the dead mans open mouth. If this was a fairy tale his salty tears of life would revitalize the body long expired. Victor would wake this Frankenstein and laugh about the inciting incident; but this is no fairy tale. He looks into the mans open mouth, where there was once possibilities there are now none. He wants to crawl into the hole and disappear, how can he make himself that small?

Victor buries this dark memory. He blinks uncontrollably in the mirror observing the speed of his reflexes. His breath is heavy and fast. He focuses on his blinking and his breathing. Blink twice, breathe once, blink twice, breath once; he is prone to these panic attacks and the key is to focus on something that demands your full attention. He counts down slowly from ten and erases the now distant yet detailed memory. He takes his hands off the sink and stands upright. Beads of sweat wander around his now pale skin. It's difficult to stand and his eyes deceive him focusing on blotches of light that don't exist. He begins to run the razor through the mass of shaving cream on his baldpate. The little silver lawn mower cuts through snow covered grass. He continues to focus on his breathing and his expressionless face in the mirror. After all the Barbasol has been cleaned from his dome, he bangs the razor on the sink dirtying the etch-a-sketch. He takes a towel, runs it under hot water and cleans the dried remnants of cream from his scalp. He still continues to focus on his breathing. He takes his now scabbed pointer finger and traces a large tattoo invading the skin over his heart. It is apparent Victor has done this many times before and this nervous tic relaxes him. He continues to trace the shape of the Swastika with his pointer and unplugs the drain with his free hand. He stares into the endless void. He continues to trace the big blue ink. He reaches for the straight razor with his free hand and looks at the haunting rhythmic movement of the other. He breathes. He stares into the dark hole of possibilities. Where have they gone?

-655321