The rocker, part I

Rock is a destructive form of art. Pete Townshend understood that; with his pinwheeling chords, his hand would be coated with scarlet by the end of a show. Jimi Hendrix understood that to a higher degree; so did Jim Morrison. Rock demands sacrifices. It will not be satisfied with mere humble prostration. It wants blood.

I understand that, too, and I agonize over it. If I die for rock, I will no longer be able to spread it. Wounding will have to be enough for now. It will take me, I know, when it decides my time has come.

I strum my electric guitar until my fingers have bled onto the strings, ignoring the pain of it. I know it will make my music better.

the hamlet

They lived in a tiny hamlet, population 64.

When the baby was born, she made him drive her out to the green sign by the road. He held it while she used the white paint to alter the sign.

Those who drove by would from now on see that the population of Sumner, Wyoming was an exuberant 65.

Some similies

My eye strains against its lid like a jumpy frog.

The violin slices through the sound like a wire through silly putty.

She lights up eagerly, like a flashlight with freshly replaced batteries.

higher love?

They had been married for fifteen years now. Sometimes she wondered if there was more to love. If this was love, after all. If there wasn't some higher feeling, like in the Steve Winwood song, that other couples experienced that she and Richard had missed out on somehow. At those times she contemplated divorce, and then flicked the idea aside like a candy wrapper. They were settled now. What she had was better than nothing.

this is a true comment

When you look through the hannukiyahs with the digital camera you can see laserlike blue lines cutting through the preview screen, intersecting through the lighted candles. This is true. Try it.

But when you take a picture it does not pick up the blue lines.

I think they might be magic, perhaps.

haiku

he gazes at rain
not thinking of anything
but how her thighs curve

Fantasia

Spinning clouds of joy
Tiptoe over the rosy sky
The centaurs prance
In flowery mating throes
The cupids watch, impassive
(But secretly pleased
At their successful work)
And the scent of jasmine fills the air:
A spring day in fairyland.

odd

He was taken aback when he first saw a naked woman. It had never occured to him that women actually had nipples. He had, he supposed, always been shielded from that sort of thing. Barbies didn't have them, after all. And all the women he knew wore clothes.

Once he got over the initial surprise, he felt exceedingly foolish. He never told anyone.

Pondering

So you're a guy and you have a girlfriend in high school. You're close. More than that, you're friends. You sincerely have a good time together. It's not just sex by any means.

Eventually you break up, although remaining on friendly terms. You keep in touch for years. She attends your weddings. She tells you about some of her serious boyfriends. Eventually you drift a little bit away from each other, though.

Then one day she calls you. Your wife is at the store.

You have a fun conversation, full of laughter and inside jokes. You promise to meet. As your wife comes inside, you say, tenderly, "'Bye." You hang up.

"Who was it, honey?" says your wife.

Now what do you say?

Calling her an ex-girlfriend would prompt suspicion. Calling her a friend would prompt even more suspicion, if your wife were to find out about your past. She seemed accepting enough when you talked about your ex before, but a furtive phone conversation would certainly seem awkward in that light.

A name certainly won't suffice, and the whole convoluted story might not be plausible, even though it's true.

So what do you say?

a segment that has been running through my head, more or less

"Who the hell would break up with her?"

"Anyone who knew you well enough."