Urban Rodeo

Anybody could be the mark. Suits always seemed to be the best. Maybe it was just the uptight mien, broken by the camera work that was so enthralling. Here in Midtown, there sure wasn’t a shortage of suits. They trotted back and forth, chomping at the bit of big business, well manicured and expertly groomed. These were the faces of the faceless corporations operating out of the Big Apple.

Tucker was out on the town, ready for some action. He had to get as close to the suit without being seen. That was the whole point. The blinders these people have on in this city. Most people don’t really know what’s going on around them. The next place they have to go is more important to them. The whole world is a distraction, or it doesn’t make an impression. When he looks back at the Rides, he can tell. It’s these connections and ideas that make him different. This is what makes him the leader. Tucker keeps one of those little handheld numbers close to his body as he walks up behind them, faster than they walk so he can overtake them.

When he gets right behind a suit, ideally within an inch or two, he or any of the crew, match speed and point the camera right at the back of their head. He can smell the product in their hair. Most of them can sense you there. That was half the fun, startling the mark, nostrils flaring. Some just walk faster, but most want to turn around. When they do, that’s when the real fun starts. They look over the right shoulder, the rider ducks down and to the left. Then they go right, Tucker goes left. It’s a dance. It’s a fucking rodeo. When they anticipate and flow with them, it’s beautiful.

*

The ‘boys were ready for a day at the Rodeo. All the batteries were charged up and the lenses polished, each messenger bag carefully packed, each member ready for a competitive day out on the range. Before the gallop out the gates, none of them knew what was going to happen, and that was the draw, the impetus to get out there and experience all the city had to offer.
Some of the guys had gone so far as to buy cowboy hats and boots, but Tucker just thought this stupid and obscene. Plus, he just didn’t look good in them. Jealousy and envy always breed a little hate. He made do with a flannel button up and skinny jeans for a uniform. His scuffed Vans and scruffy beard could have belonged to any NYU film student. He did prefer contacts to horned-rims, though. The sentinels of business, cloaked in glass and brick, stood poised and in control. He could feel the day coming, the city out there, waiting.

The moments of the dance were an invigorating few, but comparing notes back at the Stable preserved them forever. The whole crew would gather and go over the best of the day’s rides. Luckily, Tucker was able to finagle a spot in the Mercer Street Residence Hall. One of the RA’s was sweet on him, and she was more than willing to give a key to a forgotten supply room in the basement. His easy swagger and slight drawl had clamed her right down. At first, an old couch, a few posters, and the last cathode ray tube TV in NYC rigged to work with their digital media was what passed for the Stable, their hang out. But as the year went by, a few more posters, couches turned in to stadium seating, even a projector donated from a Cowboy’s old video gaming setup, helped to turn the once rat infested supply room into a respectable hangout. Tucker loved this time, and seldom laughed harder.

*

The group was an Urban Rodeo gang. The name just kind of appeared for them. Some had fought it, since it made ‘em Urban Cowboys. Not that many were against the film, it still held up in most of their views, but they preferred Saturday Night Fever, the original Travolta-swagger movie. But once the other Urban Rodeo guys started going viral, the name had to be fought for. Jumping on peoples’ backs? For fun? Where was the art in that? Not only had Tucker’s group come first, but they tried not to touch the mark, whereas the other guys simply jumped on some unwitting innocent’s back and filmed it. They weren’t going to let the other assholes have it. This probably did as much as anything else to seal the name. That’s when Mason came storming into the Stable, ever the aggressive self-promoter.

Mason was always pushing to upload their videos anyway, but after a quick search on YouTube produced the miscreants, he was even more petulant about it. “How are we supposed to operate in this city if they already have the name?”

“We’ll be fine.” Tucker exclaimed for the umpteenth time. “Who cares if they have the same name? They don’t have any idea what the fuck they’re doing, clearly. We don’t need to do this or anything for anybody else, got it?”

“This is not just your vision anymore, Tuck. We can really do something with–”

A scowl furrowed Tucker’s brow. “What do you mean, do something? We are not going to prostitute ourselves around town looking for the next score. That’s not what this is about.” He trailed off slightly, jaw clenched.
Mason, more determined than usual, stepped up to the quick draw. “When you find yourself alone, poor and forgotten, don’t blame anybody but yourself.”

“You need to listen, and listen good. This outfit is not about money, never has been, never will be.” Tucker saw a flinch in his opponent, just a twinge in the corner of his eye, and exploited the mistake. “That’s why your rides are lacking, Mason. You’re slipping. Now get the hell out of here.” Mason’s retreat was quick, drawing the batwing doors with him as he passed through.

*

One of the newest innovations of the Rodeo was the secondary crew. Another guy or two would set up off the mark and work in tandem with the primary Rider. Most people just wanted to Ride themselves, but it had turned into a rite of passage of sorts, filming someone Ride before a young buck got out there alone. Tucker, as the undisputed champeen of the group, was the most heavily filmed, but certainly not the only one. Wouldn’t be much of a competition otherwise.
Today, Tucker was thinking of the last suit, a real buckin’ bronco. Just kept going left, then right, back and forth. The collar of his overcoat kept whipping up, one side at a time. Tucker could just make out the Dolce and Gabbana symbol on the frame of his glasses before he turned again. This sure was going to be a riot watching this guy again. Finally, the money shot comes. That moment when they turn around and face you, completely, that look on their face of mild fear, of anger, of surprise. Those nostrils flaring, eyes bulging ever so slightly, maybe even dancing in their sockets. Tucker knows that a nod to his video camera while taking a few steps back is usually enough to assuage the fear and anger of the situation.

*

Tucker is excited for the day. He’s spotted a few marks as he surveys the range, a field of well-cut suits moving briskly through the crowds. He moves with ease, a saunter that is a little out of place in these uptight parts. The wind has whipped up his mop of black hair that frames his face, a smile beginning to curl at the corners. This is the moment, the approach. Match stride, only longer. Italian patent leather clicks down the concrete. Tucker can smell the expensive aftershave. The fabric of the suit makes a slight swishing sound, a creaking underneath, like hay being tossed in to a loft. He is only inches away, the camera right at his ear. He turns. Left, right, and back again. The bucking begins.
It doesn’t take long, only a few seconds at most. The suit turns completely to face his pursuer.

“Fuck you, Cowboy.”

“Who you calling Cowboy, Suit?”

“Oh, now you’re the tough the guy? Look, you aren’t behind your camera, ‘dancing’. So, yeah, fuck you and the whole city rodeo. Get a life.” And he turned back to continue his trek down the concrete trail. Tucker didn’t know what to do. He reached to grab the man’s elbow.

“Wait, you know who we are?” One quick movement got the man’s arm out of Tucker’s hand. He slowed enough to look Tucker in the eye, a mixture of haughty indignation and supreme condescension spread thickly over his face. Immediately, Tucker regretted the semi-desperate tint his reaction had intoned.

“One of my more worthless assistants loves you guys. Thinks you have really ‘tapped into the realness of the human cityscape.’ I had the misfortune of catching him on your website. Really, I can’t imagine what it is they see in it.” And with that he was on his way, as if Tucker should be astonished at the amount of time he had already given him.
We don’t have a website…

“Shit, we’ve gone viral.” He says to himself. “Mason.” Even through the fury of the name in his brain, a nugget of change had crept into his psyche.

*

The secondary crew sat on the other side of the street, dumbfounded. None of them had ever seen such a smile crack across his face. It was only there briefly, so quick that later they wouldn’t have believed in its existence, had there not been video evidence. A scowl immediately shaded the nacreous shine of his smile. He was about as stoic a character as John Wayne in his prime, Rio Bravo stoic, when the bad guys are around and Dean Martin is at his lowest. He looked shaken, and unbelievably, took off at a dead sprint. Tucker wasn’t one to run. None of the Cowboy Flunkies, as they lovingly referred to themselves, could remember anything but a quick saunter, a fast mosey, out of their A/C cool leader. They looked at each other, thunderstruck.

*

He had to figure out who put up the website. Had to get the site under some kind of control. Had to rein in the project. Where the hell am I? There was the GE building and Radio City Music Hall. Jesus, I just blanked for what, three, four blocks? Gotta get under control. Still over 30 blocks away. Nearest subway: Rockefeller Center. Tucker may not have been a native New Yorker, but like anybody who’s spent more than 50 bucks on a taxi and lived there for a time, he had learned the subway system.

*

He ran up the stairs of the Washington Square station like a thunderstorm racing up a high desert mountain. Most of the dealers in the park knew to stay away today. The junkies wafted across his path like so many tumbleweeds. The Residence Hall and the Stable were just on the other side of the campus. As long as he could get there… A familiar figure was casually walking on up ahead. The figurehead of all this rage and confusion. He slowed down to match pace, closing in.
Tucker could smell the product in Mason’s hair. He raised his left hand and grabbed his shoulder, the exaggerated collar of his pea coat quickly flattening back down from its oh-so-cool perch as he was spun around. “What the¬–” Tucker cut him off with a quick right to the jaw. Mason was sent sprawling as Tucker took a step with the follow through. His eyes were full moons upturned at the Cowboy leader.

“What did you do?!”

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I…Tuck…Jesus, man, what the fuck are you doing?!” He wiped with his hand, a little red left behind.

“The website, Mason, I know.” Again, that slight flinch in the corner of his eye. “You posted our work. How many videos are up? All of them? Or are you saving some for a Holiday sale? Jesus, I should have known.” Mason got up to his feet, knowing that if he were to be frank with Tucker, he better be at eye level and on the defensive.

“I don’t know how you found out, but it was bound to happen. Yeah, the videos are out. Hadn’t thought about a Holiday sale, but sounds like a good idea, Tuck. Maybe you were born to market.” He smiled at the idea, slightly red-toothed. Mason pressed on, smug as all get up. “They’re all out there, uploaded and for all to see, every last one of ‘em. The question is: what are you going to do now, Tuck? Can you keep fighting this, or are you going to wise up and run with it? This is it, buddy boy, this is the final shot of your little project. Can you handle it?”

*

“And with us tonight, the creator of the so-called Urban Rodeo, Tucker Reynolds!”

Solvang: Prologue

The Solvang hadn’t been convened in going on 200 year. Long enough that nobody living could remember one, anyway. Oh, some of the old timers said they remembered their parents going off in the middle of the night to the sound of a deep, sonorous noise, but nobody really believed them. Not that the old timers were that bad with their memory. The exoRAM might have been a little out of date, but the bits were still intact.

No, the memories might have been correct. Thing is, nobody wanted to believe them. Nobody wanted to believe that their world might come crashing down around them. Nobody wanted to believe. But it was hard to argue with the ancient horns emitting a long, drawn out note felt in the middle of your head rather than heard.

Rookc the Dullard thought long and hard about the deep vibrations he felt. The wahlenstrom was coming. The Fulmen had failed. That, of course, left the Colony almost completely defenseless, an ‘allowable risk’ to the preemptive strike according to the Proven. They didn’t think or believe that the Fulmen could fail. Neither did Rookc.

Rookc Minreva was a notBright. Had been for a long time. That didn’t mean commoners didn’t come to him with their problems. They just didn’t respect his timelines or his decisions. They were among the most difficult of judgments to live with. Which meant they were of the hardest truth. Only the Proven could make those decisions quick enough, unfaltering. The trained Potential was damn near instinct, and almost completely inherent.

Rookc Minreva had been called Slown for so long that he couldn’t remember ever having Potential. The attention lavished on the Potentials, the jealousy that followed the crestfallen and disheartened wherever they went. The land, red and blown, was difficult to survive, and the Slown had the added weight of Laborlife to contend with. Most didn’t mind once the work was started. Actually, only one still did.

He was not dumb. NotBright was an easy classification to fall into, a system that was based on timing and memorization. The Martian Wind was lethal and sudden, a red violence that could whip the Common into a frenzy of activity, guided by the Word of the Trained and the Proven. The honed instincts of the Proven are the lifeline for the Colony. All depends on them. But now their skill would be bent to a new task: war.

Kitchen List

Pork chops cooked on an electric skillet by my mother, the
sizzling slabs of meat announcing Friday.

Spaghetti without sauce. My father’s way of eating the pasta
he cooked for us.

A hot slap of red chile enchiladas his other specialty. Served
with a fried-egg on top.

Top Ramen in the pantry like jumper cables in the truck.
The Boy Scout code: Be Prepared.

The taco sauce packet added to the saucepan, simmering
on the stove.

The kitchen where I stepped in front of my father’s raised fist
less like a wall and more like a window, where he could

see my spine is a step ladder, the heart wanting to climb
in to my head.

Lightning bolts and thunderclouds roil
as the two approach.

Third Pig

The wolf was the house is the blowing down of the little pigs scared and the first pig I saw the wolf drooling over the bales of hay. Huff and I’ll the second pig scared with the first they twigs to get away from the drooling huff and I’ll while the third snickered and the wolf where is the wolf. Sneering the third pig the drooling the brick the scared little piggies blow your house in a pile of scared little piggies the third one laughing. He drooling the brick huff and the scared piggies the wolf is angry the third pig is smiling hungry.

Never

5 The rocket was off, the rumble of the thrusters shaking the frost off the liquid-oxygen and –hydrogen filled fuel tanks. The nozzles splay for a brief moment, as if caught off guard from the sudden violent blast the mixed fuels deliver, but quickly recover and direct the force into a focus of white heat emblazoned on the platform as the technological spire floats for a moment, suspended on the children of Hell.

4 He should be excited. This is the ultimate, the finale, the fulfillment of all the dreams and aspirations of his, his family, his people included. All the side jobs, second jobs, second-hand clothes, overtime, and hand-me-downs through the years by his father, his mother, his, everyone, have come to fruition.

3 A red and black leather jacket with many zippers, snaps, pockets, some doubled, some sewn, some fake, some not, but all completely needed hung waiting for him in the closet, a worn out pair of Chuck’s on the floor, a worn pair of Levi’s with two gathers of fabric sewn at the waist thrown over the back of a chair. Thriller had been on the shelves for a decade.

2 ‘Cause this is thriller, thriller night
The clock-radio reads 7:00 AM. Uhhhh, school already? I wonder what moms has got packed for lunch. Will they let us out to watch the shuttle launch? Wonder what Shondra’s doing?

1 My kids will never have to put up with this shit. Cleaning up after these white folks, demeaned and tormented. No, they will never have to put up with this. Who you calling boy?!

Cruisin'

“Come on, baby. Come on. Just this one time, that’s all I ask. Come on. Come on! Damnit!” I turned the key one last time, for good measure. “Sonuvabitch.” I looked at my watch. “That’s just great. Ever fucking time, this godamnpieceofshit, stupid cheap ass, ripoff!” I slowly lowered my hands from the steering wheel. One of the neighbor kids was looking at me through the window. I listened to Smokey Robinson for a few more notes.

I was gonna have to burn some serious rubber to get there in time. “Don’t forget the ice cream. Right.” I can feel the sides of the carton loosening up. I catch a glimpse in the rearview as I climb out of the Reliant. Just about time to get a haircut. “Probably should have left earlier. Stupid fucking car.” I give it one more disgusted look and turn to go. All I can think about is the shit storm to come. “Why are you late this time? Got stuck in traffic? At work? On Mars? Blah blah blah.” That neighbor kid was watching me pace across the driveway. His face told me he heard ever word. His eyes told me he didn’t understand much of it. The gaping maw said he understood plenty.

“Ah, shit shit shit.” I was taking the word out for a spin. “Shit,shit,shit,shiiiiit.” I know I told her I wouldn’t be late. Not this time. Of course I understood how important this is. I know. I’ll be there. I can picture her face looking up at me, sweeping the hair out of her mouth. “I’ll pick you up, ok? It won’t be a problem, I’ll just swing by after work-“

“I’ll be there, alright? I say I’ll be there, and I will.” Whatever. There isn’t much I can do about it now. Just have to get to the bus stop “in time to see the god damn bus leave!” My hands are up in the air, ice cream running down the sleeve of my jacket as I squeeze the contents out the top. There’s a Neapolitan oil slick in my armpit.
“Shit.”

Time

The door to the saloon creaked in the wind. Thought it might be someone coming in. Yeah, right. Just the wind. I should say always the wind. The paint had been stripped off the west side of the building, sandblasted as it was, always was. The Stones were playing on the jukebox. Time is on my side.

“My ass it is on my side.”

“You talking to the music again, Charlie?” That’s just Don, the owner of this here flea-bitten, sandblasted establishment.
“Always windy around here because you a wind bag, Don. Just an old wind bag ‘round here, yes it is.” Been sittin’ on this here stool since I don’t know when. Don’t really care to know. The sun comin’ through the front window glares, smudges out all the front out there. “Hehe, yheh, you’s just a old windbag, Don.”

“Charlie, I’m a year younger than you, ya dumbshit. Graduated a year after you, went into the service after you, got back after you. Hell, I even dated yer sister after you.” With that he slapped his towel across his thigh. Thought that was such a good dig. Always thinks that’s a real good dig. “Anyway, Hoss, what are you doin’ here today, anyway? Isn’t this yer day in the sun?”

“Don, I’m gonna tell you somethin’, and I want you to listen up, for once in yer life. Stay outta my business. I know what I’m doin’. Sittin’ here just a little longer won’t change nothin’. She’s been dead a long time. I’ll be over to the ‘site in my own time.” On my side, my ass. Yes it is.

The Duke's Gate

The Duke’s hand comes up to my elbow,
a soul searching strength behind the shake, judging.
He drops my hand and rubs his face, one
cheek, then chin, the other cheek, eyes glinting.

Marshmallow décor with cotton candy accents surround
the huge book, he seated on a pillow he stole
from a whorehouse in Texas.

What’d ya think, Duke? Am I in?
One look. Don’t just stand there,
get yerself a drink.
Whiskey.

The Punished

They had only known each other a few hours and their relationship was entirely based on money, so their punishment made sense. Of course, to quote that great sage Carlin, “Selling is legal and fucking is legal, so why isn’t selling fucking legal?” He’s got a point there, and more eloquently phrased a point there may never have been.

They met on the street, naturally. And as long as there was money between them, not too much now, they would be in each other’s lips embrace.

I’ve known a few turned into animals, gazelles, elephants, various insects, and the question of punishment versus reward is always posed. But who are we to question or criticize our betters? For that matter, who are we to praise them?

At least these two have a shade of clothing, of comfort. In an attempt to make the punishment more closely fit the crime, those accused and convicted of being too chaste were almost always left without even the barest of clothing. You could argue that this was simply freeing to the individual, but they can’t speak so nobody is asking.

I was amused with the removal of ‘cruel and unusual’ from the Books, as most of us were, until I was caught up in a wave of anti-author sentiment. I was charged with dissention, for writing too many unsubstantiated opinions and observations that were negative to public and private life. I am reduced to eyes and hands, poised above the keys, typing incessantly, judging for no one.

Unmanned Soldier

The projector whirrs to life.
The beginning of the current battlefield strategy emerged with the advent of the Unmanned Aircraft Vehicle or UAV in everyday operations. Reconnaissance was their primary mission, but they were quickly armed with air-to-ground missiles and bombs. Unmanned air support provided the safest conflict arena for the foot soldier the world had ever known. Any theater requires ground troops to secure land acquired and to hold forward and rear bases for supply and air support. With this in mind, the next revolution in warfare: the Unmanned Soldier, US. This technological leap forward was a long time coming.

First, small tracked remote-controlled bomb squad robots were employed, then larger tracked detectors combined with limbed robotics. As the technology improved, so did the applications. ‘No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.’ General Patton was never more correct. The US Army hasn’t lost a single soldier to battlefield activities in over a decade, and with you new recruits we aim to keep this the safest army in history.

The whirr dies off. The lights come on.
“Any questions?”
*
“This is such bullshit.”
“Can it, Corporal. Nobody wants to hear about your ‘ideas.’”
“Sarge, you know this is bullshit. ‘Make the other guy die’ and all that horseshit. They don’t even die anymore. Ever since the Russians and Indians teamed up to make their own Unmanned Soldier nobody dies anymore. It’s just a junk heap at the end of the day. If we even get to that-”
“Because the budget-”
“That’s right Sarge, the damn budget! We go out there and destroy-”

“Kill.”

“-destroy the enemy, and the only thing that actually ends the battle is the damn accountant back home who decides the costs aren’t effective anymore.”
“The official term is ‘kill,’ Corporal, and the fact we can get into a battle and get them out of it is the whole point. Whether there is actual death does not matter. We have entered a more humane period in human history.”
“Humane until we start fighting people that can’t afford the damn US. Sending people to die while we only send things to be destroyed isn’t even in Patton’s universe.”
* *

“I don’t know, Deborah.” The Sarge’s wife lay next to him on the bed, reading.
“Well, she has a point, doesn’t she? They really can’t afford the new technology, yet those are the only countries we go after anymore. Doesn’t it seem unethical to you we send the US out there against their ill-equipped men, without even the uniforms of soldiers?”
“Maybe they shouldn’t of started shit with the U.S. military then.”
“…”
“I mean, that’s what it means to have the biggest, baddest military in the world, right? If war just isn’t worth it anymore, then why fight? That’s where we’re at now. We don’t even lose guys anymore, aside from that pudgy Controller Jockey with the coronary. But they reinstituted regular PT after that and we haven’t had another the past five years. We make the other guy die without even setting foot in their country. How could we lose?”
“…!”
“Yeah, I know, hon. But what do you want us to do, dumb down our equipment? Turn back all the years and the billions of dollars of R and D? No way, we have earned our spot at the top of the mountain and this is how we defend it, anyway we can!”
“That’s about enough of that, Sargent Horse’s Ass. Your arrogance is only over shadowed by your ignorance. Whatever happened to the inalienable rights of man, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Does that only apply to those at the top or are we better than that? Can we say ‘No, even though we can we do not have to?’ Can we do that, or is it John Wayne’s like you who are going to keep us in the business of Death?”
“Jesus, Deb, you’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“…”
“Alright, I get it. Machines versus men just don’t seem right. And if it keeps going the way it is, we’ll end up pulling back before they do. Who can afford to keep losing expensive equipment?”
* * *

The glow of a video screen splashes her face.
“Sarge, I need to talk to you.”
“Oh, shit. What now, Corporal?”
“I want to get out there.”
“So go, the door is open.”
“No, not out of here. Out there. Where the action is, hold a gun in my hand-”
“Not a chance, Corporal. Besides, you know you’d be-”
“-putting my life on the line? Possibly dying out there for my country? You can’t tell me you don’t think about it.”
“Yeah, but then I think about my wife and the fact we don’t have to go out there, we can sit right here and blast those fuckers whenever they pop up on the screen.”
“But it doesn’t feel right, does it. We’re just hiding back here. It’s…too easy. We could do this any where, any time. Who’s gonna stop us?
“Exactly!... Maybe it’s too easy, when everything’s going good, we shit cigars and piss Perrier. What’s to deter us when we have the money…Dammit, Corporal, this here conversation is a court-martial.”
“Sarge, I’m not worried about a fucking court-martial. The honor of battle has been taken out of our hands. Replaced with a piece of plastic. If it’s important enough to make the other guy die, shouldn’t we be there, doing the killing?”
* * * *

The camera pulls back from the sweeping green carpet, white marble crosses radiating out in formation.
“The sun rose on the day of her death just as any other day. First peaking out over the horizon, then solemnly thrusting its head out over the country, announcing to the world the start of a new day. The proclamation of the wonders to come are a stark reminder to those that are still with us, that to live is truly a blessing, and to die with honor a repayment of the grace given us a day, a moment, at a time. She is laid to rest a hero, a sublimation of the human spirit that will be lifted in exultation and carried in reverence to the deepest recesses of the human condition. And tonight as the sunsets, the gloaming spread bare at the doorstep of Night, remember that you too may be the hero, and that in this all owe a small price for the grace of a moment. Be the next proud bearer of the uniform she strode in, be the next face of a nation, be the one your parents speak about to the neighbors, a gleam in their eye. Come and be with us, won’t you?”

Trains

Sometimes you just wish that a story had a certain beginning: we were starting the happiest part of our lives, the worst part of our lives was over, or maybe just a nice explosion. Because sometimes it is enjoyable to listen to the happy times, or to hear the story of an emergence from the dark, or for the brightness and intensity of an explosion, for no apparent reason. But that is why you continue the story, for the explanation.
Of course, it can be equally enjoyable to hear about the beginning of someone’s darkest time, or the end of the happiest time in someone’s life. I think the explosion is still viable here, but now you can pull back to either just before or just after the event, like science and the Big Bang. How? They ask. And when? But not why.
This story could be about a train, approaching a tunnel, or entering a tunnel, or in the tunnel, or emerging from the tunnel, or hitting something at any point, and exploding.
So this train has people on it, or it has cattle, oil, coal, products from China, or riders on It’s a Small World. The kids are happy or scared, the parents are restless, or humming. But before this they were waiting in line, so the story could be about the wait, or the endless humming afterwards. But that is very personal, as in it might not matter to anybody who wasn’t there. And that story is a little boring. Unless there was an explosion. Then everybody would know, and some of them would care.

Race and Culture

Race and Culture




Oh, first comes to mind a pedantic argument
about an Olympian race, Greek or by foot,
godly or man.
Literally, I guess race is a competition,
but I am a poor translator.
Whose first, better, best,
and worse, or worst,
whose the loser, the lost, the last?
Words are powerful and demeaning,
celestial orbits of stereotypes;
epithets and labels are just so easy.
Jokes, crude and witty, can still be on par
with the club to ostracize and obliterate
competition.
Race is an ornament for a country that came
to terms with a standard of laws for
slave owners and a Constitution
that declares all men created equal.
Hold on a minute.
What are we racing towards?
Conclusions about who-
you are, what-
you think, what-
can I get. Hearts racing like hummingbirds.
It is easier to judge than to know,
fear is more prevalent than respect,
but not more profound. The problem
with race is that there must be a first,
but then who really wins in a
dance of dunces?

Culture, not like the Petri dish,
grows in both hot and cold climates.
Sweltering, sunny, steamy climates, and
frozen, wind-blown, bring-in-all-the-firewood,
the water-in-the-toilet-is-ice
cold. Consumption is culture.
People is culture. You and me is
culture. For better or worse, Bill O’Reilly is
culture, a part of it, the decay, the labels,
the Petri dish. The deus ex machina, the surprise.
But what do I know.