Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 54

essay cover chalice

“Answer the Lead”
For the Critical Eye

I have nothing to say,
So to speak.
I will say,

However, way back
When, when Sin
-Clearly answered

To a name – way
Before some wise
-Ass made Sin-

Clearly answer for
His word – way
Back when, when

We had some fangs,
Barking up a tree
Over so and so, over

This or on about that,
With more virtue than
Toll: Criticism was two

Of the freer lost dogs
Ever to be listened to,
Playfully circling in

A space of no place,
No time, showing off
Duality’s snap nature

—“Love ya,”
“Need ya,”
“Want ya,”
“Bite ya”—

Over and over, with-
Out end, ad nauseam,
Forever and evermore.
 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 53

essay cover chalice

The Ballad of Bobby Fischer
An Attempted Cover

It’s like how lyrics are easily found nowadays via this great wide world web machine, right? Chalice Sinclearly always finds him his lyrics on it. A song that conveys his moment comes over him, he looks up its lyrics, copies and pastes the song or a chorus or verse into the body of an e-mail, writes something such as “Gitourboy’ta’da-train!” in the subject line, and sends it off to a friend.

“Bobby Fischer Against the World” aired the other day, and Chalice found him interesting. Tormented by an obvious brain problem, Fischer obviously became socially uglier as the years piled onward. You know the whole story by now: Genius goes to schizophrenia. Rah-rah-rah. … What’s new, right? … Sinclearly won’t be running off to go grab a chess board any time soon. Sick and dangerous sport, chess is.

The documentary ends with “The Ballad of Bobby Fischer” by Joe Glazer and the Fianchettoed Bishops playing over the credits. That was Chalice’s first experience with this song. It’s a twanger; narrative and catchy. But he hasn’t been able to locate those lyrics today. He’s been in need of them to creatively interrupt his workday. He’s used Google, he’s used Bing. He’s only found the opening verse posted on some website about that mind-mess of a sport. His search has brought up that some group named Tik Tok has done a cover of the song, and on Amazon he heard a few seconds of it – “Bobby, Bobby, why’d you go away” are the only lyrics he’s taken with him from that sample.

Chalice would’ve liked to have taken the song’s full lyrics and performed a cover of them here, in this cubicle, skillfully arranging them into a tone, a rhythm, meter scheme – an outlook, an emotion – through which his own voice and the mood of its moment would be actualized. … But alas, like me, this cubicle’s only got flummoxed ol’ Sinclearly. And he is at work, at a real job, our job – inside that expanse of a day when he’s obliged to something greater, to something watchfully responsible for him but wholly unanswerable to him; so he’s had to say Fuck it and let the whole thing go.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 52

essay cover chalice

Chronic Instructs

Even if one takes every reefer madness allegation of the
prohibitionists at face value, marijuana prohibition has done
far more harm to far more people than marijuana ever could.
– William F. Buckley Jr.

Sinclearly is seated

next to a Chicago Public School teacher – a casual acquaintance, nothing less: the lesson of the time after a Morgenbesser’s double-positive-infused spiel regarding the parental licenses taken in a film you’ve had no intention to see, much less ever hear about, when in the silence of the monologue’s aftermath you study the teacher pluck an unstaked Castelvetrano olive from a once-sipped-from martini and place the Sicilian into her mouth and suck-chew: her jaw fashions between the arts of sinuosity and tortuosity:

that’s sort of like how it’d be like to backtrackingly describe how by curtailing the imposition of sudden fear upon the minds of parents of teenagers, intuition positions forbiddance as the single most relevant display of how to savor free, savor free of public and free of school.

~

It really puzzles me to see marijuana connected with
narcotics . . . It’s a thousand times better than whiskey –
it’s an assistant – a friend.
~Louis Armstrong

Sinclearly as an occupant

of the space in a bus gazebo (the two poster ads now adorning its rotating ends: one regards GED training; one warns of DUI – each utilizes a color photograph of a staging), and being accompanied by a soul who is in need of sharing with you the Word of the Lord via a catchy broadsheet of 43lb paper with lustrous aqueous coating, but which to your color sensitive sight has rolled off a press that probably should’ve had its magenta switched out at least two jobs ago.

~

When you return to this mundane sphere from your visionary world,
you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland winter –
to quit paradise for earth – heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, guest
of mine – taste the hashish!
~Alexander Dumas

Sinclearly in the scene:

an unmanned U-Haul parallel parks, its backing into its space the cause of splinter in several mature limbs of a tree islanded in sidewalk. Behind, a compact gas-guzzler’s plastic back bumper holds the sticker: Separate Church & Hate! The rental truck knocks the front end of the gas-guzzler silly – no alarm sounds, but its owner sees all from the far end of the block where she has just emerged from a value-conscious grocer. In the spasticity of her incensed march towards the inciter of this vision, as she short-strides through the shade that has crept onto this stage of a quaint neighborhood, it appears that out of the top of the swollen sustainable bag jostling at her rib cage three Muppets are flaying towards escape until one finally falls, rolls a tad away from her to the space of the curb reserved for the handicapped,

and there on the curb of a road with no traffic Kermit begins to belt out his big song. You join in with him at “And rainbows have nothing to hide”; but the owner of the gas-guzzler, now torn between confronting an unmanned vehicle or recapturing what she had in the grocer believed to be a butternut squash, stops mid-stride, looks to you and scorns, “I don’t know what your ass is singing for. The mafia wants you dead!” You would half expect a bill of currency to fly out of the leather purse fixed between her rib cage and her personal revolution against waste, but there’s no real handler here.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 51

essay cover chalice

Washing Your Hands of It at Approximately the Same 8:40-Something As Any Other Weekday, Looking Into the Mirror of the Bathroom (a Tad Unkempt Now From the Flurry of Use That Transpires Between 8 and 10 A.M.: Splashes Left As Small Puddles Across the Counter Top; Used and Unused Paper Towels on the Tile BelowEither Fallen During Hurried Pullings, or the Waist-High Trashcan Somehow Miraculously Missed; … Nasal Carbon Filters – Remember, Buy Them, Buy Them) on the Floor of the Building Your Cubicle Is Contained Within, and Noting How the Bags Under Your Bespectacled Blue Eyes Are Neither Ripe nor Wrinkled

I imagine you with your hair.

“Your hair.”

I want it back.

“No chance. Long, long gone.”

[Sigh.] Is there no God?

“There’s coconut oil and onion juice, I hear.”

[Sigh.] I don’t care enough, really. Not even enough for possibly doable miracles.

“Yeah, yeah, Debbie Downer. … Anyhoo, this whole sitting while you wipe your ass is for the birds.”

I know, right?

“I mean, fuck the properness of how to ‘properly’ [Chalice does air quote marks] wipe. You can’t really, fully, get at it like that. I mean, I don’t understand how you could.”

Well, maybe if our diet was better – less beer, more protein. You know, a sometimes kale not always sauerkraut sort of changing up of things. Exercising; stopping the whole sneaking smokes behind the wife’s back. I don’t know. But I’m right there with you: fuck wiping while sitting. Feels like trying instead of just doing.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given it an honest go every now and again, but trying to be refined like that always ends up making me feel like I haven’t gotten at it all, and so I always end up standing to get the real job done with anyways.”

Face the music, kemosabe: we was not properly potty trained.

“Yeah, but we’ve long ago come into that space in time where we are more than capable of training ourselves.”

C’est la vie. … Hey, remember when you discovered your ass has a hole?

“That was terrifying.”

Bending over and looking between your legs at your ass in the mirror. Good God, what prompted that? You were so fucking scared. You ran and ran around the house screaming and screaming. See where curiosity got you, big guy.

“What the hell, Hoz, I was like 5, 6, maybe even 4. I mean, Jesus Christ, when you’re that age it’s like who the fuck puts a hole there? Fucking terrifying.”

Ha. … Hey, remember that American Masters we caught once? If I ain’t mistaking, Philip Roth stands while wiping, too.

“You know, I think you’re right. Yeah. And you know what else? I think I remember reading somewhere how Nabokov did it, too.”

Hmm. I wonder what other—

[Hearing the code being punched into the key pad for the bathroom door cuts me short. The door opens and a hipster from the douchey marketing firm on the floor enters. … I want it back. … He goes straight into the stall I occupied seconds ago. … Buy them, buy them. … With great patience, having, after all, really nowhere in the world to get to, I grab a handful of paper towels, dry my hands as best as I can, then purposefully drop the balled, wet towels into the waist-high trashcan.]

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 50

essay cover chalice

Unrenewed Subscription to The New Criterion, Again

There were less public justifiers paralleled to
Ponderances that scribed a re-charactered Sin-
Clearly allegiance to a granularly-texted smarts

In where skeletal phrasings could not retaliate
Against the conscripted confines of inquiry
Until his outsider glance of modernity ran in-

To the post-privileged tenor of being held
Captive inside an unwalled voice bow-tied:
The tacky gratuity of imagined crossed lines.
 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 49

essay cover chalice

An E-Mail to William Logan
Cc: David Yezzi
Bcc: August Kleinzahler; Garrison Keillor
Subject: A Cube with a View

Hello Yet Again My Friend:

I am truly sorry for sending that rude Messenger note on the night of the Charlottesville nastiness. (My true hope is that you never received it.) I was furious over the fact that one of your publishers has a hard-on for Steve Bannon. … Not that I’m a Liberal, but I’ll touch on that in a sec. …What split across my mind that evening – other than the vodka – was A) my deep admiration for your criticism (as I flippantly stated in the Messenger note, I feel your poetry is flaccid, which is true – I do … simply put, and as I’ve stated to you in an earlier e-mail intrusion, “side by side, the emotions of our work would show we hang amidst pointedly different crowds – mine is the slightly burned out but still smoking; your crowd simply sparkles”); B) my disgust over the emotion Bannon emotes (at base, to my mind, doing all he can to inform a political atmosphere meant to capitalize upon the failing American ability to practice critical thinking); and finally C) the things I’ve read from a publisher of yours, Roger Kimball, that express a high regard for Bannon and his notions. I came to the angry conclusion that by allowing your work to be published within The New Criterion (TNC) you are complicit.

I still kind of feel that way. It is a feeling I must overcome. I do recognize that this feeling is unfair to you, and entirely assumptive.

As I have informed you in the past, I was once a subscriber to TNC. What you don’t know is that I was a subscriber in two different eras of my life. The first was a three to five year stretch back in the middle Nineties, when I was on the Gentleman’s Jack full-time, wearing a tie daily to my employment at the Art Institute of Chicago (rest assured, I did not hold a glamorous academic-leaning position – I was one of the ones that accepted the public’s donations … I worked the register back when donations were accepted by the non-profit), listening compulsively to G n’ R, and I began, at the age of 26, to smoke a pipe (what a douche, eh?). It was a period of time in my life when I was ripe for being in a conscious revolt against my generation – against the apathetic ways of Grunge.

No doubt, I was a sad-sack of contradictions back then. On one side of the coin I was an enthusiastic burnout, while on the other side I was burgeoning formalist. In the midst of that period I read a profile of TNC in, if I recall correctly, The New York Times Magazine, wherein it was mentioned how TNC’s staff and crowd are whiskey-drinking intellectuals. I longed to be just that. I was a few years beyond an academic career in which I excelled at nothing in the classroom, and I was yearning to prove that I could indeed think and reason. I learned much from the erudite criticism published within TNC. I learned that serious, meaningful criticism is necessarily impolite. I had been becoming more and more appalled by Poetry Slams, by the academic temper of contemporary poetry, by the emergence of Performance Art, by how artists spoke amongst themselves against the common Conservative foe – by what I perceived as being an art scene more concerned with therapy-sessioning, with utopia-ing life, and less concerned with being of the Lone Wolf mentality. With each issue of TNC that arrived in my mailbox, I grew more and more repulsed with the polite back-scratching I saw going down in the contemporary art scene. TNC’s editorial stance was at that time stoking my anti-PC position.

Then I went away for a while, for really no other reason than I just did. Nothing prompted my stepping away. I simply did not renew my subscription one year, and that stretched into several years. I came back, yearning for TNC’s hard-bitten criticism, but upon reading my first issue in years, I was disappointed. I had remembered it as being different, livelier. What I came back to was a pile of intellectual stoicism – a pile of righteous Academic stuffiness. For some reason, I had remembered it as being more ebullient—more expansive. I recognize the importance of editorial stances/missions, and I now realize TNC had been doing what it had always been doing: sticking to its smarts. So, simply put, it was I who had changed during my break with the journal. By the time I came to TNC for a second go, I had acquired different expectations, I had become a different sieve.

In the years between subscriptions my wife and I bought a home with a basement in Bridgeport, Chicago, on the city’s South Side (bang bang). I matured into this middle-aged punk before you who still shops for bongs, and never, never tucks in his shirt. … Never! … I grew back into who I was when growing up: my friends are all proud Union members or work in the Service Industry or the like, they get their life philosophies from The Simpsons, they don’t tuck in their shirts, either, and they could care less about poetry or coffeehouses, but yet they crush coffees day-long, just one of the many elemental habits they unconsciously embrace during their debauched drafts—read: days—in the pursuit of cultivating out of life itself a heroically unapologetic poem; I stopped trying to pronounce words correctly, allowing my natural Chicago accent to bastardize any tact I might possess. I stopped posing – I am not an intellectual. Far from it. I realigned with who I really am: a Chicagoland boy who happened to come upon an artistic inkling; but who pays less heed to that fruity inkling than he does to his craving for a stool at the corner tavern where he can participate with his peeps in bitching about all of their laborious attempts to unfuss their days, and share in crude laughs over how splendidly well they all fail. And in such a re-cultivation, I had projected a hope that TNC might have evolved into a more … uhm? … pluralistic anti-PC. But when I came back to it I immediately understood just how really privileged TNC’s take on being anti-PC is. With each arrived issue of my renewed subscription, I was becoming more and more bored with TNC.

I had grown into a Free Thinker. I have come to believe that both the Left and the Right give Populism a horrible name – a horrible reputation. (Understood: I’m writing with broad strokes here, but this ain’t no essay – it’s an e-mail. And though I might begin to sound apathetic here, I do vote.) Each tries to appropriate Populism to its own agenda. Both parties, both agendas, have played the populace into tribes. They got us exactly where they want us: they got us battling against the other’s respective perception, rather than aspiring to a collective respect for critical thought. Both Modern Liberalism and Contemporary Conservatism, each being utterly compartmentalized by its own PC and by its own increasingly Gizmobation-based definement of who and what is “elite,” stand as embarrassments to the fearlessness of the other, to the art of listening—to the American imagination.

Apologies, William. I know your writings were in TNC during my second spell with it. I always look forward to your work, but unfortunately, to me, your writing was getting bogged down in its surroundings. It began to seem to me that all of the writing in the issues was neglecting the “Culture” in favor of the “War.” (Again, writing in broad strokes here.) To my mind, your criticism does not deserve to be lodged in the spine of the Culture War. When I read your criticism outside of TNC it is nothing short of irreverently brilliant, it entertains and enlightens; inside TNC your writing becomes snobbish, steeped in agenda. Seriously.

More recently, I read on the great and ever-widening internet machine the series of essays TNC – Roger Kimball’s TNC – published on the theme of Populism. I was confused. As I read each essay, I couldn’t help but to imagine each author as being like a Napoleon, a Napoleon atop his stallion on a gentle hillside far, far, back, peering through a telescope at his forces as they engage and die in battle. Populism is utterly simple. It means one thing only, and that meaning is not up for dissection by intellectuals, nor is its meaning there for the commoner to assume as a justification, a comforter, for single-mindedness, prejudice. Populism is the awareness that honesty and dignity – humility’s forces – are propelled not by the cosmetic questions of our vitality, but rather by the gutsy questions of our temporality. It is an awareness that is void of ego—of class, ethnicity, sex, color, religion. It is in the embracement of the gutsy questions of our temporality where We the People can become unshackled from the earless entrapments of being of the Left’s reality or being of the Right’s, where We the People can fearlessly come to accept the fact that separation of Church and State is the most imperative notion of democracy. And with that, We the People will center the American imagination, and finally find the common reality that our perceptions of who and what is “elite” have always been one in the same. … Yet, obviously, We the People will never fully be one tribe – unfortunately there will always remain a douchey sector of American society – inclusive of both Left and Right leaners – wherein the amplification of the differences in our sets of belief, and how to react to, enact on, those takes on belief, shall always be self-righteously (Godlessly, actually) heralded. … In practicing humility and refraining from being pigeonholed, we could better gain the courage needed to pursue an unsafe – irreverent – as opposed to tiptoey – PC-laden – dialogue that would go a long way in creating a civil approach to understanding the underlying grievances between, say—to bring matters closer to home here—between the Lone Wolf character and the MFA mentality .

I urge you to step away from TNC. Get out of that context. … But again, when I take a step back, I fully understand I’m being unfair and assumptive here. This might be exactly where you want to be published. It is not for me to judge, though I do.

… Anyhoo, I have written something with the Culture War in mind. In fact, I’ve titled it that (its working title for some time was, “Colin Jost and Michael Che vs. Roger Kimball and Steve Bannon”). The germination of this piece was my feeling bad, terribly irresponsible (and hungover), really, the morning after I sent you that Messenger note. But it’s come a long, long way from the sense of culpability that was its launch. Below is the culmination of my trying to work through my political angst, which has much to do with my cultural ignorance. … Enjoy.

Toodles,
Chalice Sinclearly

Culture War
“Ecoutez la colère du peuple”
~Sign held high amidst tear gas during the 2010 strikes in France
I. Freedom Fries
When in the dying sun’s rise its still
Allegiant rays burn off the frayed
Gauze fog that dressed the battle-
Field as a shelled vestige to the prude
Shock surround of a post-common
Sense gushed into a night that was to be
Paced by the leathering into bone
Of a licked persecution’s lyrics toothed
Cerebrally as an anthem accompanied
By the acoustic resolve that’s fuzzed
With “Chillin’” amid gateways of a 4th
Wall while beside the blazes of too natural
Pyrotechnics our gazes would forage
Beyond this enlisted presence towards
The pulse of our guiltily negotiable
Neighbors who required conflict once
The vagaries of the possible ear
Surrendered to spike the illusorily
Lived lesson of a suburban-raised Punk
Ethos with wannabe MILF diatribes
Loaded in the pill-born strains of a life-
Style whose nosey choices dimension
The parenting of an agenda whose back-
Attack slants at perfection of White self
-Pity:
The foolery masked by the crusade of an ambition
barefacedly polarized by the fear of being cultured
It is in this preparatory phobia at the muffin
-Top-bookended crack of Facebook’s dawn,
When we will need the Rastafarians armed
On our legalized flank with smooth hoorays;
As our drums “Immigrant Song” below our
Curling flags of Joker, the complacent eye-
Witness world suffers two-faced Bukkake.
II. Brief Trajectory of a Voice’s Paradigm
The arrow parted from Poetry on a straight choice, a quickened aim stretched across the bow purchased in lieu of Poetry’s remove from the consequential cowboyhood of firearms, and yet being fanatical over the right to the safety of oneself and one’s – response to a world gone now to the whims of media consultants financed by the financial struggles of street gangs to strain the gripes of kingpins’ turfs into a greater, more single staging against the infusion of White self-pity’s holed up position on the potential banning of a fictitious Soul on Ice; to perfect podium gestures that better perpetrate the possession of a conviction harbored only in an intellectual capacity cultivated behind bars raised to expectations of emotions irked by blames juice-lipped in nature, and numb-assed with time – and being ultimately gifted with no judgment of what is right and who is wrong, Poetry aimed for this night stalker whose presence was suggested at when through a breeze avowing window came the familiar unfamiliar early AM jiggle of a poem’s door handle in an alleyway (the sound of revision is like a smile: its purpose should be as decipherable to you as it is to the next principle-minded Beef Head or Knuckle Fuck). The arrow’s bulleted passing from backyard to alley biffed the home plate of a diamond in Poetry’s chain link fence, redirected to enter the underside of a cleft chin, pierce a suspect tongue, and poke the roof of a Poet’s skin-rot mouth: The calamity might be best exemplified by an actual readership.
III. POV: Revolt the Revolution
Re-inquest the sense of pigged depravity, in-
Where the cinemascopy recovery of order
Might go legit beyond the bludgeoning gage
Of ever since, whereout the Gentle Mental,
His jiggly nips in the throes of a heave as His
Decree overspends in the fervor of this bottle-
Flu world’s talked over narration, utilizes defiant
Syntaxes of a billy club – wherein, for keeps,
Gentle Mental Himself resurrects not lightly to
The fish-net-driven hard-ons of White self-pity’s
Unambiguously hermetic fantasies of intellectual
Freedom: “As a rule I fright the ‘You’ out of me:
‘Boo-scary-scary! BOO!’”
But billy clubs do vignette; and the polarizer
Hostility, whose star-shy nativity is evidenced
In fingerprints discoverable upon unexecuted
Molotovs, cuts an atoning swath across steadily
Beasted sanctuaries of an encrusted resistance
As Gentle Mental outs brutality in the midst
Of without – as if “True dat” will polite into
“Precisely accurate” within the Haymarket
Of a civilization whose protest song twangs
A Woman governance over the over-mannered
Ideal Gentle Mental quashes under His fear
To hear Truth is not a brain shart of His alone.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 48

essay cover chalice

Futility from a Height

My neurotic back is to the door. Uncharacteristically, the bar is empty. Even Bob is not present. He’s gone off to the back room to grab some coasters, some glasses or some-shit.

Sun sweeps into the silent bar, and then a sort of spatial shading creeps into that sun. Only one body is cut out to emanate such a sagacious, see-through shadow as this.  The shading touches me as an understated incitement to goose pimples: I chill.

The Reverend Any Major Dude is in da house, y’all.

The bar’s door shuts out the sun. … Ugh, there it is. Shit. There’s that annoying, tripping laughter of one Chalice asslick Sinclearly. … Ugh. Can’t he just stay outside for once and go get lost?

A Black Label is on the bar, before the stool next to mine. The Reverend appears in the mirror behind the bar. The Reverend’s long, oblique face, engulfed as it is now solely by the velvety fake light of the bar’s interior, is a vast, plushly vegetated plateau dripping with revelation. I stand, turn around and slap him ten and he slaps me ten right back. … Right on. …

He looks to the Black Label, reaches for it, hoists it, slams it.  I take my seat. I look up to him.

“I’ve got no real time for you today,” the Reverend shares, and gets his illogical presence all up in my grill, the thickening hair of his forehead, parted down the middle this day, tickles the tip of my nose as he bends down to speak to my face. I sneeze, and before I look back up to him I see his size 17 feet are flowing underneath my stool, the hand painted scenes on his sneakers are of streams robust with salmon run.

“God bless you. And thank you. I’m sorry, but I really have no time to spare for you at the moment. Commitments. You are not my only customer. You are not my only favorite branch of knowledge. But please feel what I am beginning to feel before I step back out into that fisticuffs-stirred air of Chicago wherein the vaporous trail of its Teachers Union bends over backwards to dodge the ricocheting bullets of Rauner’s very real stereotypical nob way of being pretensefully empathetic: your fight for your duality, for this numb-nuts here [he points a thumb over to Chalice whose face is buried into his arms that are crossed atop the bar – he is simply dying of laughter, laughing so hard that he is not making a sound], your fight for the no-namer in poetry and for poetry to get off its high horse, your fight in the name of poetry’s potential readership—the totality of your bickering at the American Literati is directly related to your fight to re-grasp your Catholic faith, to your hope that the Catholic Church will more absolutely become for and of the laity, and finally be an aesthetic extension of … hmm, what? … A moral rigor that finally embraces the loving psychotropic digressions of a Freethinker real-mindedness? … Ha! … Are you fighting a winning battle? It is said that a real Catholic goes to church; a real poet doesn’t hole up in a basement. … Know this, Hoz: you either need to reevaluate the ways of your being, or you need to concede that you are neither a poet nor a Catholic, that you are in truth what you are: a full-fledged wannabe. … And know this, Mr. Trip-Master One: futility ventures to unimaginable heights for its self-revelation. … Fly high, brother-man. Fly high.”

He raises his palms to waist-height. I slap him ten, and he slaps me ten right back. … Right on. … He turns around, and holds ten out for Chalice to slap. Chalice’s face is still buried into his arms that are crossed atop the bar. He has begun to emit hiccups of laughter, his spine heaves with each emission. The Reverend drops his hands, looks back to me and shrugs. I shrug back, then I spin around on my stool and begin to stare at myself in the mirror behind the bar.

A sort of spatial shading permeates the bar. Bob steps between me and my image, “Same way?” And as I give a nod, the bar’s door shuts out the sun.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

Follow Lone Wolf Poet on Facebook