snack

a scream upon the sinews,
a kneed with sultry barbs
to dance on peppery coals
with glee and innocent revere
throw down a trivial gasp.
confusion colludes desire
as she,
a mantis kills for love
and a euphoric snack.

Feather in the Tar: Josie

          3:00 A.M. A dense wet cloud grips the asphalt over an ancient marsh, the Marina. Mostly young professionals, fresh families, and a few original relics inhabit its Mediterranean row houses, white, yellow, blue, brown, and even an occasional pink or maroon stucco, four stories tall with ubiquitous sidewalks and protected back yards. This is a sticky dream for all those erector sets in the Midwest. A quaint, close-knit village surrounds a commercial high street with everything a small community needs, a grocer and butcher, a general hardware store and multiple pharmacies, as well as neighborhood grown restaurants and dress shops, even a smoke shop. Coffee bars compete with dive bars and lounges for the minutes between the nickels and dimes of day or night.

          Quiet, the fog absorbs all sound like cotton candy melting in your mouth. Summer is the season of fog in San Francisco, and the late night carouse, revelers and regulars, locals and tourists, old money and barely dry follow the cycle of a monthly moon or paycheck.

          Josie is making her way home from Dinky’s Bar on Chestnut. She’s full of pink ladies, gin and lemonade, and gravity is imposing its fancy on her progress. She lives on Divisadero in a small one-bedroom condo with parking. It’s fresh for the neighborhood; the Loma Prieta shake and bake, tumbled and burned the original 15 units. She paid cash from her husband’s life insurance. Six weeks ago, Frank choked from an allergic reaction to strawberries and chocolate sauce. The sauce was made with peanutbutter.

          Frank’s latest pet, a 23-year old barmaid, sharp curves ahead with fresh tattoos, blue eyes, and an innocent eager glance loved to dress up for him in period costumes, hats, and jewelry. She wore all or one at a time, and Frank was more than happy to oblige and fund her. Frank was always eager with the opposite sex in whatever fantasy, as long as he was at the center. Champagne and strawberries, Frank licked the sauce off his pet’s surreal chocolate bodice. Her boss, one of Josie’s barfly friends of a friend, gave her the recipe.

          Josie gave up policing Frank’s chastity, and was glad to have the time and budget to chase her own Eros, bartenders, dance or yoga instructors, tourists, conference attendees, or salesmen. If he is cute, and younger than Frank, any karma sutra is almost enough, including the prey’s buddies or pets.

          Josie’s hickory walking stick is two-thirds her age. He’s tall, light and blonde, balding, and just got laid off from a Jamaican mortgage company. She stumbles and laughs too loud. He catches her as she presses her breast hard against his arm and watches his eyes light up.

           “Fresh,” Josie pecks him on the lips, and rights herself.

          She grabs his hand and wraps his arm around her, and places it on her round full bum. She twitches her gluteus as they weave-walk down Divisadero to her condo. Her red fingernails (a little too perfect) taps the door code, turns, and smiles at him. She motions her head and eyes toward the handle; a lady never opens a door in the presence of a gentleman. Stick opens the door and Josie grabs his hand and pulls him into the lobby. She pushes him against the wall and pulls his head down to hers, moans, and thrusts her tongue into his mouth. Garlic and gin, her hickory puts his arms around her shoulders and works his way to her ass. He cups and squeezes, raising her off her heels. Josie moans.

          She grabs his crouch and he pushes his tongue into her mouth. A flush of pink, her hickory is breathing hard, and Josie grabs his hand and pulls him up a flight of stairs to her apartment. She pulses his lips again, as he clutches the nape of her neck. Josie turns and takes her keys out of her purse. Hickory swats her on the behind, and she giggles. The knob turns before she has a chance to use the key.

           “Funny, I thought I locked it.” She says to herself.

           “What JoJo?” He asks.

           “Nothing, nothing,” Josie pushes the door open, turns around, and pulls him in with both of her hands, giggling. The room is unusually warm, and Josie wonders if she left a window open, because the fog has followed them inside. Shuffling backward, she leads her stiff hickory to the bedroom, and pulls him on top of her on the bed. She opens her legs, moans, and pushes her tongue into his mouth. He laughs and fights it back.

           “Whoosh,” a puff of hot fog rises over them and Josie opens her eyes. She breaks off the kiss and focuses on the ceiling.

          “Whoosh. “

           “Oh my God,” Josie says and turns in the direction of the gust.

           “JoJo?” Hickory says, turns his head to follow hers, and his eyes dilate.

           “No!” Josie yells.

          Before she can scream, “whoosh, whack,” a loud gasp fills the room with a guttural sigh, and the steel bed frame cracks in two towards the floor with a loud thump.

          Abby, the downstairs neighbor, bangs on her ceiling with the broomstick she keeps in her bedroom just for such occasions.

           “Bitch,” she says and thinks, sounds like she broke her bed. “I hope she broke her ass.” Why the hell does she have to be so damn loud in the middle of the week? How does that skank cougar catch so many?

Feather in the Tar: Snooper

          Seven Bardo looks up from the bus stop on the west side of Washington Square. It’s 1:30 AM, and he watches a couple walking towards him on the opposite side of Columbus towards Fisherman’s Wharf. He’s been tailing them most of the evening, from Lo Pi to Geno and Carlo’s to Toni Nick’s. A restaurant street hawker, Ray, at the Mona Liz called him while the couple were at dinner. Raymond is an old absinthe buddy from V’s and always in need of a quick Jackson, one to watch and one for a text; he has the usual quarter-flip puppeteer, a young pregnant wife vs. the ponies.

          Ray’s eyes and pattern matching skill never fail in North Beach. If you need to find someone and they stroll along Columbus, he can memorize a face and pick it out in thirty seconds, a quarter mile away. Ray texts at nine, “bulls-I @ stnk rose.”

           “OMW,” (on my way) “txt @ TD,” (time of departure) I reply.

          Seven grabs the digital SLR and the 18-300mm lens–small enough to shoot close, but long enough to stay in the shadow–and stows them in the camera pocket at the bottom right side of his black backpack. His checklist for the tools of the trade flashes across the synapses.

Tools for Snoop.

 

           “An even number of tools, luck is not symmetric. What am I forgetting?” He says to himself.

          Seven picks up a 70K volt Thor Hammer, test fires the charge, and crams it in the right-hand, jacket side pocket (just in case.) The Sig Sauer is at the downtown precinct for test firing on a different case, along with his license. He puts Effie, (a YellowJack smart phone nicknamed after Sam Spade’s secretary in Dashiell Hammett’s, The Maltese Falcon) in its Cordovan holster on his black fire-chaser belt.

          Frayed, the belt saved his life once. He was working a case in the Mission, when his client, a skull-drunk, 20-something goin’ on 40, common-law wife, stabbed his right calf as he ran from the scene of her husband and sister in a non-siesta, lay-down salsa. The tourniquet held for several hours in the emergency clinic in Pacific Heights, and the cab driver was not to happy about the upholstery, until Seven handed him a C for the steamer and fire collar retort.

          Seven removes his camera from the backpack with little motion or noise, like so many times before, and rises from the stop and circles it. He keeps his eyes on the target, and leans next to a large oak behind the stop in Washington Square. He lifts the 300mm lens to his eye and braces it against the bark. No flash, no tripod, only street light, he will have to be as still as possible for a slow shutter. He breathes deep and exhales slowly, snap, snap. “Blur warning,” he’ll have to do better. He counts, “1001, 1002,” exhale, inhale deep and slow. He sets the shutter timer for 5-second intervals. He’ll only have to press it once to start and once to finish.

          The targets are arm and arm, laughing, kissing. The satyr raises his arm around her shoulder, and Seven focuses the lens. He holds his breath, and as they pass under the street lamp, the all but ex-husband caresses her breast through her red leather coat. Seven exhales and pushes the shutter release. Click, click, click, no blur warning, Seven lets his breath out and lets the shutter run. They pass the light and his chimera-bride to be puts her hand down the back of his jeans; click, click, click, and no blur. He pushes the shutter button to stop the adrenalin syringe lucre chain.

          Seven breathes and laughs, “was it good for you.”

Berkeley Kite Festival 2008

          Close your eyes and inhale slowly, deeply; exhale slowly, deeply; repeat several more times, continuous, you will know when your ready. Keep you eyes closed and imagine a clear blue ski and sun on your skin. It’s not too hot, the sun warms, but does not raise a sweat. Imagine a breeze on your skin, it’s not too cool, it may or not raise goose bumps. Imagine hearing the flutter of nylon, cotton, or paper. It tugs your arm, tight between you fingers. Open your eyes.

          Nothing to do but layback on the soft green turf and relax. The Berkeley Kite Festival is a simple break from the rat wheel and cheese maze. On July 25-26, Highline Kites hosted the largest kite festival on the west coast. Saturday conditions could not have been better at Cesar E. Chavez Park, Berkeley Marina: plenty of open space, sunny, upper 70-degree temperatures, and a constant southerly breeze off the bay.

          10,000 spectators and enthusiasts, amateur and professional, watched or flew kites ranging from 6 inches to 90 feet, from a perfect replica of a swallow to a pod of giant airborne octopi. The Berkeley Kite Wranglers flew 25,000 square feet of giant kites with 17 octopi. The world record is 21. Participants flew everything from pirate ships, dragon kites, box kites, and even Disney’s Nemo made an appearance.

          Festival highlights were the Sode-cho Kite-Flying Society of Hamamatsu, Japan. At the annual Matsuri (Festival), kite fighting between up to 170 teams have competed since 1887. Kites have been a tradition in Hamamatsu, Japan, for 448 years. Taiko Drummers from Taiko Spirit provided live music.

          A team of 16 four-line kites, shaped like two opposing triangles on a single plane, preformed an acrobatic kite ballet. The handlers flew in formation, formed shapes and letters, as well as wing-to-wing stunts. Manufactures pitched their wares and hosted kite making and flying seminars.

          Bay Area Sport Kite League (BASKL) presented the West Coast Kite Championships. Saturday’s events finished with a rokkaku battle, an octagonal kite fight. Competitors of all ages were invited to engage competitors with octagonal kites. Opponents attempted to cut each other’s string, and send their kite to the ground.

          Standard fair food was available and picnic baskets were welcome. I enjoyed a handmade root beer and corn dog, and an ear of roasted corn. Entry admission was free, but parking on the site cost $10 and $8 with shuttle from Golden Gate Fields. The fee covered shuttle expense and supported two local charities, the Berkeley Rotary Club and East Bay Community Mediation. Traffic was typical bay area with available spots filling up early, and scores of cars stuck on I-80 access roads. I parked across the freeway, just on the other side of the Berkeley Aquatic Park. Free, but It was a good mile and half walk.

          Enough of the facts and word after word check out the slideshow.

adrift

Of all the stars in the sky,
a blue on modest wrist
pricks my drunken heart
with terra eyes,
and luster beam;
you’ll never know
the depth of will
to subdue love to swim.
A star without its fire,
a whale without its song,
and me
adrift upon a shallow tide.

I will never understand
this ocean deep and wild
with random waves
and soul-full breathes.
Better yet to breach the sky
and swim with creatures low
upon the rift where lava flows
then on the rocks with
broken masts and fury.
Men will meet a fate
they most deserve,
to sea, a wanton heart.