The Pigeon

This is another old file I found in the vaults. I wrote this back in college for a poetry class, so it's about twelve years old, but if you know the original poem, it might be a little entertaining if not exhausting. We had to do a parody of poem, and instead of picking a manageable sonnet or something, I chose to spend three hours doing this.

The Pigeon
A parody of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven

Once upon a midnight drunken, in my sofa softly sunken,
Leafing through many a curious issue of some soft-core porn.
Over the toilet I was hanging, when there came a horrid clanging,
As if someone was a’banging, clanging at my trailer door.
“It’s just Jenkins,” this I muttered, “clanging at my trailer door-
Just John Jenkins, nothing more.”

It was foggy I recall. Maybe sometime late last fall,
And the smell of stinking offal crept in through my taped-screen-door.
Prayed to God I’d see tomorrow, wished I had a gun to borrow,
To put an end to all my sorrow, sorrow for that nameless whore.
For that cheap, unchary chippy whom I call...the nameless whore,
Cause she slipped out the back door.

And the dusty, dry, uncertain flapping of each flowered curtain
thrilled me-- filled my shorts, the likes you’ve never seen before.
So to stop the pulsing pounding of my heart, I started sounding,
“That you Jenkins, boldly banging, clanging at my trailer door?
“That John Jenkins boldly banging, clanging at my trailer door?”
It’s just Jenkins, nothing more.”

Then I finally found some strength, and blurted my thoughts at length:
“Sir,” said I, “or Ma’am, your coming late sure makes me sore;
Over the toilet I was hanging, and so rudely you came banging,
And so loudly you came clanging, clanging at my trailer door,
That my neighbors probably heard you”-here I opened up the door—
Lawn-chairs there and nothing more!

Across the trailer park I stared, shivering, because I was so scared,
Psycho, shivering, shaking-scared, like no one ever shook before.
The creepy quietness unbroken, on my stogy I was tok’n,
And the only words there spoken were the screams, “You stupid whore.”
This my neighbor called his wife as he kicked her out the door—
Domestic violence, nothing more.

Back into my trailer turning, to the smell of tobacco burning,
Then again I heard a banging, somewhat louder than before.
“Dammit,” said I, “dammit who is pounding at my window lattice?
Let me go check what the threat is, but if it’s just kids I’ll sure be sore!
Let my temper cool a second, so as not beat them like before,
It’s just kids and nothing more.”

Then I opened up the shutter, and with many a flap and flutter’
Inside flew a dirty pigeon, from the Baptist church next door.
Not a single sound he made; found a spot, and there he stayed.
“This is what made me afraid, now perched above my trailer door,
Perched upon the helmet of Dallas, just above my trailer door?
A stupid pigeon, nothing more!”

This dumb bird tricked me to thinking, probably cause I was drinking,
That my life was in grave danger from someone, I could have sworn.
“Though your chest is green and shaven, at least” I said, “you’re not the raven,
Dirty, dumb, and pesky pigeon, flying from the church next door.
Tell me what your special name is, what they call you right next door.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Baffled by the bird so queer, then to hear him say so clear,
Though I knew not of his meaning; what he meant by nevermore.
For I cannot help but say that no one else in no other way
Ever yet was cursed with having a pigeon above their trailer door—
bird or beast on helmet of Dallas, just above their trailer door,
With such a name like, “Nevermore”.

Then that pigeon, sitting lofty on the Dallas head cooed softly
That one word, as if himself in one big terd he did outpour’
Nothing else that pigeon said, and then just sat there as if dead.
Then I in a whisper said, “Other pests have left before—
Tomorrow morning he will leave me, like the cherished nameless whore.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Startled by the silence broken by that word so clearly spoken,
“Probably,” said I, “all it can say is that one word and nothing more.
Learned it from some unsexed master’s wife who met with sad disaster;
He cheated bad and had a bastard, then her screams this burden bore,
Cut him off from any sex-life, that celibacy promise bore,
Screaming, ‘Never-nevermore.’”

This damn pigeon kept me thinking, so I sat and kept on drinking,
Strait I pulled a beanbag chair in front of bird, and helmet, and door.
There upon the vinyl sinking, I engaged myself to linking
Psychosis with my sanity; thinking what this pesky bird on door-
What the hell this dank and dirty, fat, and filthy bird on door
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

Then I sat engaged in matching the bird with my incessant scratching:
That mangy pigeon’s leeching lice had bored into my hairy core.
About the bird I sat divining, with my body: scratching, reclining
On that itchy beanbag lying that the Stroh’s light gloated o’er,
But whose vinyl lime-green lining with the Stroh’s light from the bar,
I shall press, ah nevermore.

Then the air grew thick, I choked, as if by some unseen smoke
Puffed by bar-flies whose breath now stunk from smoking since the age of four.
“Wretch,” I cried, “what devil has sent thee, by the demons he have bent thee,
Alcohol was my sweet nepenthe, and I loved that nameless whore!
Chug, o chug this kind nepenthe, and forget that nameless whore!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Bastard!,” said I, then inflected, “bastard bird diseased, infected!
Whether Satan sent thee, or you smelled peanuts on my floor,
Cut to the chase damn bird,” I ranted, “ in my drunken world enchanted-
In this trailer you have haunted, tell me dammit, I implore-
Is there- can I drink in heaven? Tell me, tell me I implore!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Bastard,” said I, then inflected, “filthy foul diseased, infected!
By the heaven high above us, and the God whose name I swore,
Tell this body liquor laden, if, within the distant heaven,
I shall clasp a bawdy maiden whom I call the nameless whore-
Clasp that leathery, busty maiden whom I call...that nameless whore.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Let that be your word of leaving, bird or fiend!” My lungs now wheezing -
Get the hell out from my trailer, to the Baptist church next door!
Let no birdshit be a token of the crap that you have spoken!
Leave my drunkenness unbroken! Get the hell off of my door!
Leave your beak out of my peanuts, and get your ass from off my door!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Then that bastard, never flitting, still is sitting and is shitting
On the Cowboy’s helmet, just above my trailer door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a dog in heat that’s dreaming,
And the Stroh’s light over him streaming, red-lined shadows on the floor;
And my soul from off that beanbag that lies sitting on the floor
Shall be lifted-Nevermore!

A Wrinkle in Rhyme

When I decided to have my students read "Light breaks where no sun shines," a poem by Dylan Thomas, I chose it because it was cryptic and dark, but also optimistic; I thought it would be a nice challenge for my honors students. Maybe my brain wasn't working at five in the morning when I chose it or maybe I'm just an obtuse moron, but I completely missed:

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

I was was lucky that my students were just as dense as I was. I picked up on it halfway throught the day when I asked, "What does he mean 'the fruit of man unwrinkles?'" but fortunately no one noticed what I noticed, and I skipped it and moved on. When I got to my last period, I realized what was going on in the whole stanza, plus I had asked them to identify the central image of each stanza. Fact: It only takes one kid to figure it out, especially when it is the most vocal kid in the class.

Needless to say, I had to play it off like it was no big deal, but if you know anything about a room full of teenagers who have discovered something even remotely dirty, even "honors" students, that is easier said than done. But they were honors kids, so I just explained that in a poem that addresses rebirth, the phallic imagery of this stanza is merely illustrating how the next generation brings hope and "burns the seeds of age," and that procreation is necessary for the hopes of any generation. I'm not sure if they bought it.

Story Time

I have opened more blogs to lie fallow until I have the time and wherewithal to cultivate them, but here are a few test seeds.

http://estoricatime.blogspot.com

http://ihavegivenuabag.blogspot.com

I Want to Believe

A couple of weeks ago I put on my new sweater that has large gray, red and white horizontal stripes about four to five inches thick, and I noticed a faint ring in the area under my ribs and above my stomach like someone had rested a drink on my belly. Obviously, I hadn't rested a drink on my sweater, but something like that probably caused it. I would have happily moved on with my life, never giving a moment's thought to it ever again, but a few days later, I put on my cream sweater, and I saw the same ring in the same spot as my other sweater. Strange. When I checked my original ring sweater, I found that there were two rings.

Once again, I would have probably forgotten any of this ever happened, but when I put my cream sweater on for work today, the dim rim of some mystery source was still visible. I mentioned it to some people at work today, and they were as perplexed as I was, but no one could offer a reasonable explanation other than a circle left by a drink even though it was a little larger than a bottle or can, but I know I haven't reached the level of sloth that allows oneself to rest his drink on his stomach. Lib's theory that its from water soaking off the counter as I'm doing dishes doesn't jive either because they are perfect circles in the same spot and location--they shouldn't be that consistent and perfectly round.

Others have proposed a laundry theory and I thought maybe there was something in my closet where I throw my dirty clothes, but in both cases, clothes are crumpled, and the mark would be uneven. I wonder if it is on my other sweaters, but is too faint to be seen because they are darker. This is a real conundrum.

Later, I was once again beckoned to retell the mystery at the bar, Lib asked me to raise my shirt, and there, in the same spot on my t-shirt (and keep in mind, the t-shirt and sweater were not on at the same time the ring appeared on the sweater) was another circle--same size, same spot.

Before we left, a coworker noticed ring on Lib's shirt too, but we quickly realized that it was smaller and remembered that she had put a drink on her stomach in an attempt to figure out the origin, which made me feel better because I was afraid it was contagious.

I have no reasonable theories about the appearance or the source of these sweater circles, but I can assure you all, it will not be forgotten until I solve this enigma.

My Hero

In fourth grade we had to pick two celebrities to write a letter to, and we eagerly awaited some kind of response, because when you're ten, celebrities are a big deal; they are not real people yet.


I chose Bill Cosby and Sylvester Stallone--obvious right? I'm surprised they never did a movie together.

I don't even know if "The Cosby Show" was on air yet, but I remember liking Bill Cosby and I know how First Blood affected me the first time I saw it at my parents' friends house. By the time Rambo II came out I was a Stallone nut. If I had known he was only 5'7" I would have identified with him even more. Cobra was a bit scary, and I never really bought the metaphor in Over the Top, but the lesson "DTA"(Don't trust anyone) still sticks with me from Lockdown and I always made sure to remeber that in case I ever went to prison and needed a mantra.


I think you can probably figure out who wrote me back with an autographed, glossy black-and-white of himself walking through the jungle, shirtless and scarred, carrying a compound bow. I always imagine what my life would be like had "The Coz" written me back instead.

100th Post

What does one do to celebrate his 100th post? Simple. Amish Erotica--or as I like to say "Amirotica." I wrote this over six years ago after having a conversation at work about what would be considered "sexy" to the Amish, which was only stirred up because I was explaing how I had once seen a hot Amish girl at a lawnmower store in Ohio. So here it is.

Book Section from Samuel Will Butter Your Bread by Amos Stoltzfus

From Chapter 1: "Churning"

… The sun came up over the Fisher’s barn sending a long shaft of bright daylight through the hay loft and penetrated the cracks onto the earthen floor where Rebecca was in the midst of clutching and tugging at Besse, a mature Hertfordshire, for the morning milk and daily cream. It was a hot day in June. It was even hotter beneath the heavy layers of denim that had heretofore been strong enough to keep young Miss Fischer’s desires under wraps and well with in the bounds of proper Christian behavior.

Rebecca had been at the butter churn for over an hour when Daniel walked in with the young calf over his shoulder.

“Miss Beiler? Do you mind if I rest a moment inside your barn. I reckon this here calf is about to die of a heat stroke, and I myself could sure use a break,” said Samuel, and he squatted down on a stool resting the young calf between his thighs and tugging slightly at his neck.

“Sure, come in out of that heat. You look parched, Mr. Fischer can I get you anything?”

Their eyes met only briefly before Samuel wiped the sweat off his brow; he knew exactly what he wanted, and it was buried beneath layers of Puritan doctrine and cotton for one man, but not enough to keep the devil out. Rebecca feeling a bit embarrassed by the silence and her own thoughts turned her attention and frustration once again to the butter churn and polite conversation.
“I missed you at services last week, Samuel.”

“Daniel King had a problem with his hog sluice that demanded immediate attention. I didn’t right feel like I’d be servin God if anything happen to those poor creatures…but it was kind of nice.”

“Nice? What was nice?”

“Not havin to listen to that old man at the pulpit, he can just be so dry sometimes. And for hours.”

Daniel was right, Reverend Lapp was dry, but just hearing Daniel talk so uninhibitedly sparked something within Rebecca; she had never heard anyone speak with such sin on his lips as she had just now heard. She had hoped to have the butter churned before noon, and it looked like it would be closer to a quarter till at her new pace. Yes, Reverend Lapp was dry, but Rebecca was not.

At that moment, the calf squeezed between Samuel’s knees, let out a bellow as if something had prodded it into a sudden frenzy, and as Samuel tried to restrain the wild animal in his loins; Rebecca churned the butter as if spurned by some deep dedication to dairy. Samuel wrestled with the taught, strained, lunging, young bull chafing against his denim. Rebecca, knowing he would not have the strength to fight it himself, rushed to his assistance, and in the clutch and tussle of the barnyard frenzy, she lost her balance. Holding on to the wriggling, slithering mammal with one hand, Samuel reached out and caught her by the bare wrist…

From Chapter 2: "Guess Whose Coming to Dinner"

…Rebecca knew that “Amish” was derived from the name of its distinguished founder Jacob Amman, but this evening, to Rebecca, Amish seemed more as if it had come from the Roman god of love, Amor. She had once caught a glimpse of a pagan book one of the city children had torn a page from and showed her at the heritage festival where her family sold dairy and candles. The picture was of a plump fleshy human creature with wings and a bow and arrow that filled people with love, but to Rebecca the thought of being hit by an arrow, even if only figuratively, did not conjure up the proper Mennonite emotions she had always be taught to restrain. The thought of her flesh being pierced by a heart-shaped arrow called up a russet shadow to her wan complexion, and she thought back on the morning in the barn with Samuel.

Samuel. Rebecca had forgotten that the Fischers were coming for dinner in just under an hour. She immediately pulled her sleeve back over her wrist and scuttled between the kitchen and dining room setting the table. She was hurried. Her parents would return from town at any minute. She struggled to keep the thoughts of Samuel in the back of her mind, but it was difficult; if an Amish woman had ever needed an air conditioner, it was now. Samuel had become an entity that ebbed and swelled in Rebecca’s consciousness lapping against the dry, sandy shores of proper conduct and puritan restraint. Rebecca felt like the rough craggy rock just out of reach of the cool undulating froth and spray, but after years baking in the sun, the tide was moving in. The Fischers would arrive within the hour.

At dinner, Rebecca’s father Amos sat at the head of the table, and the rest of the family and company were seated along the sides; however, the placement was not as random as it seemed. While Rebecca’s family was on either side of her, Samuel had made it a point to sit directly across from Rebecca. For the restless couple, dinner was swirling mix of reverent nods, talk of crops, and thanks to God, punctuated by a few stolen glances at forbidden extremities as the other offered seconds or passed the butter. It was an evening of nervous out-of-place questions and awkward, over-thought responses.

“Do you need…. I mean…would you like some more butter for your corn on the cob, Samuel?”

“I buttered…It’s good butter…I mean sure.”

“I churned it myself” replied Rebecca. She flashed a glance at Samuel and dropper her eyes into her lap, smoothing her napkin and breathing her heart back to a steady rhythm. Just as she had regained her composure and her cheeks returned to their appropriate pasty complexion, she had a thought. A wicked thought.

Weeks before, she had been walking alone in the woods, which was inappropriate enough, but the thrill kept driving her forward. Her feet were tired, and the Johnson’s pond was cool and green; the creek dribbled and rippled into the pond, and the smell of water lilies tempted her ever closer to the edge. Being completely alone she sat down on a large slab, pulled her knees to her chest, slid off her boots and stockings, and ever so gently slipped her long tendril legs up to her calves into the pond. It was peaceful, but not just a quiet peaceful, a serenity that came with being free from all the rules and customs that can wear out nature’s children. For a moment she had even thought about swimming, but what if somebody saw her?

Just as she had completely shut out the rest of the world, she heard a crack in the path behind her. She jumped to her feet, but in her panic scraped her toe on the rough granite bed. A sting of heat jolted up her thigh and she collapsed. When she looked up, Samuel Fisher stood over her with his Winchester resting on his right shoulder and a half-smile slung over his left cheek. Leaning on one arm, and holding her foot in the other, she let go only long enough to cover herself with her skirt. Samuel was like Paul Bunyan standing over her; she never knew one frame could hold so much man.

“Can I help you up, Rebecca?” Samuel reached for her hand, but she could only look into his big Dutch eyes. It was all she could do hold herself up. Between the pain in her foot and something she couldn’t understand, she felt as if she were hiding some precious secret underneath her dress. A secret she dare not tell. Samuel kneeled on the giant rock leaning on his gun, and with the opposite hand gesturing to the bottom of her dress asked, “May I?”

Rebecca slid the edge of her dress just over the front of her foot. A light gloss of sweat broke on Samuel’s forehead, but he took a breath and took her toes in his hand; with his thumb and forefingers he spread them as gently as if her were admiring the first flowers of spring. Rebecca shrieked. Whether it was from pain or not, she could not tell, but she was blinded and confused by the flash of lightning that coursed through her. Rebecca reached to brace herself on the butt of his rifle, Samuel tensed. Rebecca held tight, and with the slightest slip of her hand, discharged a round into the air--and with every lightning flash, a crack of thunder.

Then it was quiet. With all the delicacy of a petal on a pond, she slid into unconsciousness, and floated home in a world of dreams—in Samuel’s arms.

When she came to, she was sitting across from Samuel at the dinner table, and everyone was staring austerly at her.

“Would you like some more turkey, Rebecca?”

A Drop in the Can

I guess when the doctor told me I was going to have to get blood work and urinalysis at LabCorp, I expected a freestanding scientific building filled with people in lab coats whose only concern was my health and well-being--a place where doctors sent their patients to get the best care, something like a secret James Bond criminal complex, but for medical processing. Instead, the corporation aspect of the whole thing was more of a franchise crammed in a corporate complex where they huddle everyone in a waiting room and hire the absolute minimum in "quality" healthcare workers to take blood and be otherwise completely inept.

I don't know much about customer service, but I know a few things. First, when you call someone up to the window and get their insurance and information, you don't just hand the card back with no direction, you give a "Thank you, please have a seat until your name is called," or a "Pease step through the door to the first door on the right" or something like that. Instead, they just hand your card back and you stand there like an idiot. I assumed they were ready for me and went through the doors, but they rudely chased me back out, and I saw a few people stand around like small children with the goldfish look on their faces until they were curtly told to have a seat instead of being instructed politely when they got their insurance cards back, but that would have been too easy.

When I was finally called back, the secretary/medical assistant handed me a cup and directed me to the bathroom to get my urine sample, but she didn't tell me where to go when I was finished. I didn't really have to go at the time, but I made it happen: I drank a gallon of water from the sink and found my Zen. Afterward, confused and with my sample, I had to walk to a completely new woman and ask her blindly what to do now that I was holding a cup of piss. That's when the secretary instructed me to go back out into waiting room in front of everyone with my cup of piss. Now, I'm not that bashful, but I was a little self-conscious carrying my pee cup into a room full of strangers. Not only did she make me carry my urine out front, but also decided that this was a good time to inform me that my doctor, unbeknownst to me, had ordered a stool sample, and once again, in front of everyone, talked at length for all to hear about how I was going to have to take a dump in a orange and clear bag with a biohazzard logo, which she handed to me in public and proceeded to inform me that they were out of shit testers, so I would have to call back later in the week so I could come back in another day after dropping a dugan in the bag.

Once again, I was completely surprised and perplexed. First, I had no idea that I had to give a stool sample for a simple check up visit, and secondly, again, she gave me no details other than that they were out of dooker tests. What is the best method of getting the terd in the bag? Do I pinch one off directly in the bag, or plop elsewhere and transfer? Exactly how much of my feces do they need? Could have been useful information. My thinking is this: if you don't tell me, I'm going to make sure you get enough, because I'm sure as hell not going to come back if it's not sufficient.

Finally, she sent me back to get my blood test, but vaguely said go to the first open room. There was an empty room and one with a nursish type person in it--what did she mean by open? So I asked, and I was met with disdain by the troll of a medical technician who told me to come into her room: she then proceeded to apologize for the temperature in the room because she had the window open--someone either puked or passed out, and I did hear a wailing cry when I was in the bathroom trying to concentrate, which also jived with Lib's story of a grown woman walking out crying with her mother. The nurse wannabe took my blood, making every effort to not make eye contact with me while exuding utter and complete misery and loathing . The only thing she did right was take my blood. When she was finished she just said, "OK." Once again I had to ask if that meant I could go, or if I had to check in somewhere, and once again I was met with bitchiness, so I left.

I can't wait to go back carrying my bag and its precious cargo just to drop it with a resounding thud on the reception desk for the wonderful girls of LabCorp (in front of a bunch of strangers).

Not Just Some Bald A-Hole

I noticed something very peculiar yesterday. As I got out of my car to run into Target, a blond woman was coming out to her car, and she made "interested" eye contact with me. Maybe I'm crazy, but I felt very awkward and smiled back, even though she hadn't really smiled at me, but had smiled with her eyes. Then, as I was walking into another store, two women came out from the back--an older lady and another young woman--and by God, I swear the younger woman gave me the same look (or someone put ecstacy in my coffee at work). Then, when I walked into Kohl's, I swear, a cougar checked me out from behind a cash register, and later, when I got pizza, the muscle-bound guy who is usually a total a-hole to me was joking around and laughing with me (gay?). Now either there was some unknown factor I don't completely understand at play here, or the planets were aligned in such a way that it was the one day of my life when I was at my sexiest, or...or maybe it is just bacause I grew in my hair and a full beard a little and stopped being mistaken as a skinhead, so people were just being friendly instead of afraid that I was full of hate and unpredictable rage because I looked like a smaller version of Ed Norton in American History X. That actually makes a hell of a lot more sense than anything else. Oh well.

Magnum Cum-Laude

I always feel a little strange and a little proud when I buy condoms, especially when I have to ask for them specifically. Once in Brooklyn, I was picking up some on the way back after a night out, so as the guy in front of me was making his purchase, I was staring over his shoulder weighing my options, and, evidently, the Polish lady behind the counter was familiar with the "I'm on my way home to get laid after being out at the bar with my girlfriend" look, and yelled, "Estra Larch?" I wasn't clear on what she meant, so I asked for clarification and she repeated, "Estra Larch? in her thick, Eastern-block accent.

I have never been ashamed of my penis size, and I have never had any complaints, but at that moment, I was faced with the choice of buying "estra larch" condoms I couldn't use or admitting that I just needed regular sized, which may not seem like a big deal, but as a man, you do want to say, "Yes. As big as you have, please." It would probably feel like you have graduated at the top of your class when they hand you your diploma, shake your hand and then you make a speech about how you are going to use them in the future, but at the same time you don't want to have to tie the condom on like a bandanna to keep it secure. So I had to openly admit in front of all the clientèle that I had an average penis, which is harder than you might think.

Just for the record: this is the smallest I could make the image to fit on the screen if that tells you anything about estra larch.