Michigan barroom all half full of cigarette haze and scratchy jukebox Hank Williams Jr. Sad old fucker sitting - small talk with himself through half toothed gums. Sitting sipping stale old American rocky mountain style skunky brew for $1.00 a pop. Wednesday night ritual drowning under seven inches of rain.

Remnants of that Hurricane that did such a number on that little island in Texas.

Stumble in out of two tone blue and white dodge pickup. 1:30am, Thursday morning. Rain dripping in pools around soaked through sneakers and oversized denim jeans.

Belly up to the bar - all carved with names and professions of love. Julie and Randoll 4-ever. The word forever spelled with the number four. 4. The old man sips his half stale room-warm beer and nods my way, a silent greeting for sad people in small town bars on a weeknight. Order one of the same with last cash in pocket. A single bill and a handful of change for a measly tip. The stale beer still cold from the tap - sort of - already flat and somehow perfect.

I return the nod, the sympathetic eyes and a swill of just the medicine for a night like this. A steady rain falls out in the orange glow of the parking lot. The band is packing their things, all metal stands and stools for drummers and case, after case. Last call for alcohol. I swallow the last of the glass in front of me.

"Sorge" says the man next to me. He extends his hand in a greeting.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorge" again gesturing to his outstretched palm. A greeting. A name.
"Nice to meet you Sorge"

I suppose it was. He offered to buy me a round before we both were off. I accepted his offer of course, and settled back to the stool. The band continued to pack behind. The singer stepped to talk with the bartender. A cut of the door.

The old man told me of being 85. of being a security guard at the Kellog's cereal plant over in Battle Creek. Watching over a million pounds of recently frosted flakes.
The lead singer had a tribal tattoo just over the top of her bluejean waist. She wore a denim jacket.

It seems that almost half the people that live in Michigan have a blue jean jacket that they wear regularly. This is bothersome to me. I can't figure out why.

Sorge proceeded to tell me of his grandson and his learning of a coin trick involving math from sesame street. Sorge was so proud. A distance in his eyes as he talked of his trip to the diner in the next town over with his grandson, so smart - that boy. At only 6. That distance again, dwarfing my years with the weight of his age. Looking me square in eyes. A connection with this man, he was so proud to know me. Said something about the rarity of the thing in me that lets me look into a man's eyes. Lets me see and not turn away.

An invitation for Sorge.
"Come on by", from the beautiful lead singer on her way out the door. "Bring your friend."


"I've never been to this house before" Sorge tells me over Vodka and Orange Juice.
"I thought she was your neighbor."
"Yeah, but an old man like me doesn't get out much anymore. I sure am glad I met you tonight."
"You're the one she invited."
A half toothed smile. A far away look in his eyes. "I'm off to bed."

As they sat and passed guitars, passed the joint, always to the left. Everyone sings along on the songs they know. Sad country and rock and roll. A thousand miles from no where. None of the names now coming to mind. Only Sorge, but who can forget? Faces iconic, Michigan on a wednesday night. An early morning the next, 5am on the clocks already.

Slow driving 3/4 ton two-tone dodge pickup, deep Michigan foggy morning. The haze of a night, burning visions across my eyes. The truck winding slowly between two lines, rarely crossing.

Oh to live in the country. To sit and be quiet beneath the largest oak or pecan tree on the land. So quiet, so still. To ponder on the nature of existence and all those thoughts that so often spin through the mind, so often ignored. To sit and just be. To quiet the mind and soak in the birds and their songs, the soft touch of grass and the smells, oh such smells. Of this I dream.

A cooler wind blew in this morning, or maybe late last night. The sky a milder, gentler mistress, not so quick to kill. And yet a loathing, sinking feeling settles in. Maybe it can be attributed to something I ate, or stress, or the like, but sometimes I just get the feeling that I am standing at the edge of a precipice with no where to go but down. But at least the heat broke. The afore mentioned white-hot rivers of mercury have settled back to their benign winter forms. This too shall pass.

White hot and choking.
The air thick with death and all its shiny trappings,
Swallow down with icey teas and water by the handful.
None the cooler.

Just now for napping.
The smallest spot of shade along the roadside fences.
Lay down the only body of a dry and dying saint,
Martyr, leper.

Thump Knock Thump
Knock the distance drums
the only cry of solitude
On earth.

And the rain drops
Shatter the silent
Meditation or a prayer.
So it was.

So to be
Whole. The distance drums
And somewhere a boy Angel
Knows the truth.

All the atypical leanings, of all of the highest of minds, could not contain the dreary facts that swirl amongst the ghosts of this our world. To sit and wonder on the nature of all that is and was and will be, is to practice an excercise in futility. Futile in its inception, noble in its pursuit, thought is the most dreadful of occupations. It would seem, when one considers the inability of man to solve even the simple problem of how best to feed himself, that thought - the development of these large brains that we expend so much energy on the maintenance of - is the ultimate folley.

Ashley

Gap toothed smile

Cheeks like candy apple red
Shining

Little Ashley slipping
Underneath

With beatle-bugs and crawly
Little worms
All penetrating feasting

Somewhere down down

Sliding
Silent through tall grass
Silent always sailing

Complacent

All painted, proper, true
Eternal
In memorium
Lost, laughing always

Lonely as I never was
Lonely as the news