Market Food

Yesterday
Awake, fumbling with toothpaste and age Jack spits the night down the drain and splashes and lashes cold reality onto his face wrinkled and real. Midday breakfast at the market, constant hum of voice and cooking food, fans blowing the smell of fried eggs and ham and laughter and your order's up, it's $11 for three meals and drinks. A short dog beneath the table which hosts a tub filled with onions pickled and hot and a small plate of salt that everyone dips their fingers into.
Today
Weakened from the market food, Jack shitting and puking the night long and now hides in the shade.

Jan. 26

Buying mangoes through open bus windows, all aboard for the frontier, headed for Nicaragua, blue sky day as traffic ahead slows us. Bicycles on the edge of the hardtop riding without fear. Double clutch gear grabbing only to down shift and load one more old man. Always something outside burning adding to the interior aroma.
The frontier es muy dificil, with long line-ups and papers white and yellow for exit and entry and exit taxes and entry taxes and a dollar for every transaction and line-ups that go nowhere and the wrong colored piece of paper and get back in line to pay another tip and finally cross into Nicaragua, into a taxi passing smoking volcanoes, a ride that lasts 40 min. for $20US into the surf town of San Juan del Sur, where we dance into the night in a bright yellow bar filled with travelers and locals alike drinking cheap rum. It's 4-1, compared to the price in Costa Rica.

Jan. 25

Santa Cruz, Costa Rica, 12:30 pm. Sweating on a bus to Liberia, that stops constantly taking 1 and a half hours to venture 77kms from the beach town of Samara. Through the window, dry country and passing Coca Cola delivery trucks, tin rooftops and grave yards, cattle starving on dehydrated grass along side the bumpy road. The wind howls through open windows.

Dia Especial

she looked out at me
from behind the gentle flowers
her fingers long
caressing her slender profile
curious eyes pondering
only a moment

Jack be Nimble

Jack clean shaved and away from the city mixes alas one more Rum prior to pass out.His mouth saturated by evening smoke and bad dream, he reaches for his stylo and paper to document the sounds of air conditioning and bugs, the cactus and ice in his plastic cup, the smell of resent in a country so rich a million dollars won't touch base. Jim told him it would cost,he blind, went into the wind. Old Fraser back home laughing drunk on Speckled Hen, further ahead than he knows and Bishop with his boundaries and camera, snapping stills and living his dream, Jd strumming his guitar in Nashville all the while Jack mixed up thinking so far ahead that he meets himself somewhere in between.

Montezuma At Night

Red and white tablecloths, our waitress in a white mini-skirt over a black G-string serving Boho bare feet surfers and tattooed dread head surf girls wearing short cut denim shorts. Monkeys drunk on fruit and stolen bread and sugar packets dance in the tree tops. Tica's and white dudes, Tico's and white chicks all drinking beer that is never cold enough.

Montezuma Monkeys

A couple of hangovers into it now.
Last night sober
feels good today.
Monkeys and waves
body surfed the afternoon.
Two more days here
then on the move.

Costa Rica

Fancy sandaled feet
one way streets
and tight jeans.
Pedestrians don't have the right away
Becoming familiar
with Pilsen and Imperial beer

So hot i had to shed
my skivies
many a short skirt
and plenty o hippies.
Bud and coke on
every corner
in Montezuma.
Thieves beside the police station
drunk on love
in the sanded campground
gunna spend a half dozen days here.

Ice

headed south with a hangover
Jack's teeth ache
and the whores are plastic
wine glass empty
as the roach burns fingers.
The ice road slide
a bike without screws.
Next years ride
an old dead sled
and a jug of rum.

My Boy

Camp fire grilled cheese
and
a garbage bag sled
Bring in the new year
@-15 degrees

New Years

Gunna get my kicks
before the whole shit house
goes up in flames

Hard Core Breakfast

The knock at my door awoke my hung over self.
Piercing blue eyes and a 50s style haircut
a crazed look in his eyes that could go either way.
It had been at least 20 years
since our last acquaintance.
I had changed plenty
as had he
other than the look.
Put back eight beer
for breakfast
and realized
there is no sense in
hiding the past.

Don't Run

There was no warning
no alarm sounded
when they came for Jack.
A coat of restraint,
Jack went along easy
he had rode this horse
before.

Too Far

The gear grinding bone crushing sounds of Jack being eating by his own machine. He had gone too far, his mind was racing, it was like a bad LSD trip , filled with monsters and black holes. A black hole was all Jack was convinced of seeing, he wondered if there was medication for such fear.

Demands

The Russians told jack it would be best if he waited inside as they were familiar with the girls and would have no difficulty moving both, them and the Vodka, from the crate into the dungeon. It didn't feel right to Jack but he followed through with direction and went through the thick fog into his house. Within 20 minutes the larger of the two Russians appeared in the threshold stating that all was in place and warned Jack never to contact them again. He pulled back the side of his winter coat to reveal a hand gun strapped to his side. Jack said nothing, only nodded in agreeance. As the fog rolled out, so did the transport truck. No turning back now. Jack poured himself a whiskey on the rocks and went to check out the merchandise. The lock worked perfectly. Jack entered the dungeon it was cold and quiet, when Jack pulled on the chain attached to the trouble light, he knew instantly that something was horribly wrong.

Jack knew that Bishop would be pissed off but he had to call someone.
"Bishop, those fucking Ruskies have fouled me, they ripped me off, one of the girls is missing fingers and another an eye. Fuck, they where supposed to be blond, and man do they smell bad. They were to be fully functional and one can't bend her knee. As for the Vodka, it's airline sized bottles, I've got stacks of these little fucking bottles. And one of the girls just repeats herself over and over and I don't know how to quiet her, there must be a string to pull somewhere and they seem to be made of some light weight styrofoam, not even close to the weight of a real woman.

Bishop laughs of relief could be heard throughout the valley.

Delivery

The russians called Jack stating that everything was running ahead of schedule. They told him that the cleanest way to deliver would be via crate and they requested GPS coordinates.This all stirred jack up. He had been told they would be arriving in time for New Years. The dungeon was still in need of mattresses and chains. He would be forced to improvise, the lighting would be minimal and security measures had not been thoroughly reviewed. It was too late, the Russians insisted they deliver. Jack offered them a civic address as he had no inclination of coordinates. Panic struct, Jack filled the floor of the dungeon with loose straw and hung lengths of hemp rope and hand-cuffs. He checked the key in the locks several times and filled the key hole with WD-40 so it wouldn't freeze. An inversion had come about so the cloud cover was thick, perfect for delivery as the lights of the transport truck appeared in the driveway. Jack began to shake, anxiety overwhelmed him, he couldn't turn back now for he had arranged clientele and the Johns had payed up front. The Russians backed the truck all the while the "beep-beep- beep" of the reverse indicator sounded. This Jack hoped, would not draw attention. The Russians fixed straps to the large crate and using the trucks boom they cautiously unloaded. Jack handed the Russian in charge a hand full of cash and inquired about he Vodka. "Yes sure to be inside" the big fellow replied.

Reasoning

The screams could be heard throughout the wetlands. Bishop could hear Jack from down the valley. Jacks fingers were frozen white all but the one that was bleeding. The trap door had froze over in the prior nights cold and Jack had been working on it all morning. Pry bars, sledge hammers and whiskey, Jacks tools of choice, but with the light on, on the inside of the dungeon, and humidity on the exterior, a solid mass of ice had covered the entrance non-permeable. Bishop came by to plead with Jack not to go through with the whole sex slave idea, but Jack was in no mood for reasoning. "To hell with you then, don't let fear and common sense get in your way!" Bishop sped out of jack's driveway spraying the neighbours fence with gravel. "At least you didn't back into it this time" Jack laughed under his breath. Then fear came over Jack, had he simply gone too far? Bishop was by far the more reasonable of the two and Jack usually took his advice.

Sanity

Jack wasn't certain
just exactly where he had put it
but it was definitely missing.
There had been
no sign of it in quite a while.
Even some of his close friends
searched.
Maybe he had lost it years back
maybe he never possessed
it at all.

But he knew now that
it was missing.

Bishop had given him
fair warning.
But Jack had an addiction.
He had created
this addiction
and lived it through.

The girls were to arrive
Sunday next.
The dungeon
was complete.
His nerves
rattled him.
Had he gone too far?
Christmas was nearing
and what a treat it would be.

Vodka

Jack sent a message
to Russia.
Heard the sex trade
was booming.
He ordered a half dozen
and dug a
dungeon beneath
the outhouse.
Friend told him
this was the way
to keep them fresh.
The temperature
remains constant
and cries are muffled.
Jack thought
this may be a good place
to store the case of vodka
the Ruskies promised to send along.

Now if this doesn't reward me with comment
I give up!

Knees

Jack sat eating out of the can
he kew the most difficult thing
about drinking and dialing
was finding the number.

He knew if he looked
he would find her.

Awkwardly

Fresh squeezed legs
He was eating instant coffee.
The buzz
incomparable.
Panties around her ankles
duelling the flashlight
to a gentle red hum.

The baby turtles
pushed awkwardly toward the water.
He tried not to be noticed.
He, certain they had seen him.

Every instance noticed
he walked in the shadow of himself

Hank

Hollywood and Western
Bukowski in the back seat
drinking and smoking
calling out to whores
A drunkard
loving drunkards
'ol alcoholics
no way out
drug fiends
Drunkenness
a suicide defence
Tired and no more will do
bottle a whiskey
meet some bitch
Now that's living
Alcohol
it's the thing
All you need
is an apartment
for something good.
tragedy is accepted
no reservation
A man whom eats breakfast
for dinner
is the same man
who has the strength to go on

All The Freedom

local vagabond
on the move
saw him
bike trailer in tow
moving
guitar and bags
and all
his quiet secrets stashed
along refundable bottles
and cigarette butts.

James

James!, he blurted out as he stood pissing in the toilet. The urine smelled musky. It was the name of a fellow he was drinking with. He'd not met him prior and considered the importance of recalling his name. His name was James and they'd most likely become drinking buddies. But that was far off, first he would have to find the car. That damn Subaru, the bloody thing appeared as any of the other white Subies in the parking lot. It had been a highly successful seller in the car market, territorially at the least. It seemed everyone in the West Koot's knew someone with a white Subie station wagon. I think they labeled them Legacy. After pissing and a brief interlude of vomiting, Jack zipped his pants and chucked his empty beer can into a barrel in the corner of the dark lower level parkade. Fuck it!, just test the alarm. How else would he find the white Subie in all this that blended like a Daiquiri. Jack reached into his shirt pocket as the Subie's alarm sounded and drew a cigarette from a twenty pack. The tobacco had dried in the heat of summer and fell like dandruff at a curling rink. He knew that time was running short and that his dignity was on the line and that his future lay in the hands of James.