Tatooed Mom

I'm hard pressed for material indeed if I'm putting this to the public eye! A few short stories are plodding towards completion, but in the mean time here is a bit of ''polaroid poetry'' That was scribbled into a 4 1/2 x 3 1/4 composition book while at Tattooed Mom for debriefing following the Broadset meeting at The Wooden Shoe. Yes, I was upset I couldn't share a plate or two of Falafel, but still, good times.

Lollipops in ashtrays.
Tagged walls.
Punk rock sounds.
Textured furniture.
Hole in wall, filled with beer cans.
Dimmed lights and white noise.
Bumper cars.
Pabst tall boys, 1$.
Junk sculptures in alleyway windows.
Tops on tables, leap frogs.
Lots of clocks.
V-neck white tee, stares and leaves
(must have seen the time)
Felafels came as wraps, not appetizers.

Memo to Me

Your lack of will
is a willful act.

Incite

More? Wednesday for me now equals eight hours on campus with roughly four hours of class. This started as the opening of ''Endure'' but I figure the two stood better on their own.

Dedicated to Jackie Leseur.

When evening light falls

the loving luminescence

of a glowing heart still guides.

May peace find you as you go,

wheresoever you go.

And as you piece the subtle text

of your life

I ask;

let me be a thread -- to prove tensile and worthy.

Endure

When the leaves of our lives

are riddled by time,

time will tell

in hues of red and yellow,

black and white,

that roots so deep

are nourished by past falls.

Mr. Stranton's Will: Part 3

This story is officially nothing more than a writing exercise, something to work on when I'm at a loss for good ideas. Please take it lightly -- as I do. Also, note the blatant Ferris Bueller rip off at the end. On a different note: school is officially in session which means the blog should also be done with it's ''Summer Vacation.''

In the early morning hours of a cool march twilight a patchwork of black bellied clouds, edged at the seams with moonlight, marched overhead. The denizens of Morgan Illinois, along with many from the farthest ends of the state and beyond, flocked in a bewildered awe to the reading of Mr. Stanton's Will, which was, strangely, looking more and more like an impromptu 4-H fair by the minute.

Under floodlights, rented by local vendors and opportunistic carnies, parents and children of varying ages ate cotton candy, funnel cakes, chicken fingers, and many a deep fried victual otherwise. They hucked balls at charity dunk tanks, tossed rings at bottles for the chance to bring home a goldfish, and catapulted tattered rubber frogs onto twirling lily pads to win – ironically – giant stuffed chickens. They tirelessly worked their way from booth to booth, tent to tent, and tilt-a-whirl, to Ferris wheel, to fun house, to freak exhibit as though it were 7pm on a Saturday.

At the heart of this funfair, stood the object of much curiosity – a ring, much like those used in boxing but bailed in chicken wire. Having overseen the ring's construction atop the cindered remains of a shanty many hours earlier, only Ronald Tomsfield Esq. knew the ring's true purpose.

With mega phone in hand Ron made his way into the ring's center.

''Attention. Attention please.''

Rides screeched to a halt and the bustle cooled to a din as Ron continued on.

''I'd like to thank you all for coming and to start I'd like to apologize for the lack of facilities. Much of this event was unforeseen. Moving on. You all know why we're here so I'll get right to it.''

Ron retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his inside suit pocket and settled them into place over the indent on the bridge of his nose.

''THE LAST WILL AND TESTEMENT OF MARVIN CHRISTIAN STRANTON,'' Ron began from a page handed to him, ''Article One: I, Marvin Christian Stranton, being of sound body and mind, as per the multitude of psych evaluations my pain in the ass lawyer forced me to under go, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking all other Wills and Codicils heretofore made by my hand. Article Two, Personal Representative: I hereby name, Ronald Tomsfield who is referred to herein as Grif...'' Ron hesitated before he continued, reading the words as though he were in disbelief – during their inception, there was never a thought that these pages would ever need be read aloud. '''...Grifter Mc Dicksauce', in spite of his past failures, to administer my estate or lack there of...''

Ron lowered the page to take an aside. He adjusted his glasses to see over their rims, into the enraptured audience.

''On second thought, instead of reading the whole of this ill advised, profanity littered, libelous, debacle of a legal text, let's just say that among the many pejoratives against myself and others here in, Mr. Stranton makes clear that the sole benefactor of his estate shall be chosen by means of, 'Chicken Bingo.'''

Heads turned. A clamor swelled and was hushed by Ron's immediate continuation, so suddenly that the chatter seemed more a gasp.

''The terms of the will, if not so simply put, are simple. Every one listed in the 62650 zip code's phone book will be eligible''.

Heads turned once more. A murmur of disappointment rose as a portion of the crowd dispersed. Those who remained were as attentive as ever.

Two men entered the ring with a large canvas, which, after be laid out and pulled taunt, fit squarely within the ring.

''This mat features every one of your names.'' Ron went on, shouting to be heard over those whom he was not addressing. ''The names are written in equally portioned sectors of a grid. To put it plainly, the first name the chicken defecates on is designated the beneficiary.''

Ron gathered up all his remaining dignity into a proud posture before adjusting his tie, wishing all the best of luck and making his way out of the ring to be replaced by a lone chicken.

The crowds reaction to the careless looking chicken was minimal at first but as the concept sunk in many began push and shove, jockeying for a ringside positions while others were content to cheer or jeer the chicken from afar

Pandemonium ensued.

People screamed enthusiastically at the chicken, which had begun bawking and flapping about nervously, losing feathers behind it. Even those who had no stake in the game began to shout out in shear jubilation, having taking a renewed interest. Those who had located their name along the edges of the ring fought violently to hold their ground, calling for the chicken as they did so. When the chicken passed near they used straws to blow air into the chicken's cloaca, encouraging it to do its business nearest their name.

All together, at some point or another, over twenty-eight thousand people cheered for that chicken to shit – and not a beer tent in sight.

For two hours this went on until finally the chicken was able to relax enough to lay her fecal gold squarely atop the name, ''Lawrence Gruber.'' Ron entered the ring to confirm this, making a slow gait towards the spot that mark the winner. The hoarse and fatigued crowd's patience was tested as Ron lazily hunched onto the spot with a groan.

After a moment, Ron stood and declared, ''The Beneficiary of Mr. Stranton's $12 million dollar inheritance is a Mr. Lawrence Gruber. That is, once more, Mr. Lawrence Gruber.'' Ron clearly enunciated his words so as to avoid confusion. For a moment: silence. '' Mr. Gruber, Would you please present yourself.''

A pause.

''Gruber... Gruber... Gruber...''

Lawrence Gruber, was home, asleep, as any rational person should be at 5:00am on a weekday.