Songs from the Fish Ladder

November rain shimmered bleak on broken “Five One Seven” asphalt. An agitated capital howled back in the dampness of oil slick reflections. Clammy concrete amplified the winds, funneling nocturnal vagabonds. And the creep of city street creatures. Aggravated skies leaked unseasonably warm, lake-fed temper tantrums. The river, bathed in polluted runaways, flowed heavy. But not heavy enough to live up to its named expectation.  Decayed leaves stuck to everything. An inconvenient reminder. A crumbling signature of another vindictive season of falling things. The one currently caught decomposing, down where the fish are all laddered back up.  Into that storm I walked, a vagrant heart absorbing the similarity of surroundings. Begging the connection of repetitive reminiscences. Twisting memory into disrobed branches. Matching the ones clawing up, clashing …

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The Escape

It was a foggy start to the break.  And for once, I’m not talking about the usual, self-inflicted hangover variety. A thick blanket of actual fog obscured The City, a fact noticed immediately after my two asshole cats woke me with the pointless insanity of their morning zoomies performed right across my face.  A first glance out the window made me think it was time to maybe change my contacts.  Those daily disposables that I habitually wear until they decide to plop themselves off my eyeballs all on their own. But no, it was just Mother Nature in her white robe.  Bringing a rarely displayed layer of modesty to The City.  Because for a brief moment, if you squinted just the right way with stale contact …

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The Interview

It’s weird waking up to the realization that a whole city is going to read my name. Steel workers and teachers. Construction monkeys with blue on their collars. Empty suits shuffling meaningless paper. Coffee shop vagrants. And the matted masses collecting across the street for their yoga class. Or, as I like to call it, “Bendy Toots.” It was a strange experience being the subject of an actual interview. Usually I am the one chasing the stories. But instead, I stood awkwardly in front of a gallery wall covered with the stupid shit I drew and answered the questions of a talented reporter to the best of my socially retarded abilities. And he did a great fucking job with the story. Not only is it an …

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40 Miles and a Lemonade

She had told me about it the day before.  And it was just my kind of ridiculous.   So I had to make it happen.  There really wasn’t fuck all else to do with the morning, beyond a few errands and the lingering angst of the tin waiting to be kicked.  But that was still later’s problem when I first hit the road.  And I was determined to make the most of the day.  Because just like I tell everyone who will listen, life is much more fun when you say “yes.” It didn’t matter that I would be driving over 40 miles round trip.  Or that I planned on dropping a 3,000% markup on a single glass of lemonade.  I told her I would be there.  …

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Ring Around the Mitten

Good morning, Michigan! So there it was again, the savage joy of yet another empty mitten Saturday. A morning spent drinking familiar grounds. Absorbing similar hits. Just fucking around, waiting to find out—all words and no foreplay make the lonely fox a grouch. Summer is here in full force. The signs are unmistakable. Everything from the constriction of humidity pressing me out of The City, to the great waves of funk blanketing fields of corn growing taller than me out beyond the limits of the city. Whatever the cause of that unique odor, it certainly helps the eventual harvest. Because great surging waves of corn shimmered as it rippled in a wind I could not feel. It looked like the fields were breathing as I headed …

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The Dirty Boulevard

I fought my way through hell. But, I was lucky enough to have kissed an angel. I felt the scaring prick of abuse. But, then I blushed hard against the curve of alabaster skin.  And delighted in her freckles counted there.  I wanted to give each a name.  And celebrate the imprint of their uniqueness. Forever. Instead, rough fingers traced the smoother edges of a dream right before the wake-up call of another scheduled good-bye. A clean dream.  One in which healthier avenues would eventually prevail.  And claim gentle victory over the forces of narcissistic intent. But being born to wander the dirty Boulevard leaves little room for acclimation.  Or even acceptance.  Not when legalities constantly threaten.  And commitment teeters under the influence of abusive memory.  …

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Asphalt Dreams and Other Strange Things

It always comes back to roads.  In almost five decades of summers, I’ve run down a lot of roads.  Sprawling interstates.  Back country lanes scratched out of the holler.  Familiar flyover county lines strapped on a grid of rigid Midwestern flatness.  Asphalt and Michigan gravel; concrete and Georgia clay.  Ocean views and cement tunnels that felt like coffins.  Even foreign motorways with their strange signs and nonsensical flow.  Always pushing the posted limits.  Ignoring responsible rest areas for the promises hiding just up ahead, behind that next mile marker.  Stopping only long enough to tank up on gas station chemicals; burning tobacco on an endless loop.  Mashing a path through muddled playlists, struggling to find the most significant copilot to help fill the space between miles. …

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