Crime of the century

Jules and I had been hiding out for years. Made fugitives for a series of murders we had committed for nothing more than self preservation. Our hunters were no better than us. We had hid under the stairs in secret back rooms, protected by our own mothers, whenever they came knocking. I remember the feeling of holding my breath with those stairs pressed against my kidneys. It felt like we had been running forever. Traveling by jeep through barren deserts and lush gated community garden mazes reminiscent of the Shining. And then in an old Russian mansion that was bugged like a casino. Prowling from room to room like some dreamy game of Clue. All the while I could feel the paranoia swelling in my chest. Many years passed. And one Halloween, when we were both older and comfortable in masks, we spoke about our experiences with friends who lived free lives, in the garage where we had first written music together. We glanced at each other with eyes that asked if it had all been worth it. And all those people we had left behind listened while we explained how a possible end might play out. They kept their fears and their opinions to themselves. But we never let our guard down. It was our old principal who finally tricked us into coming over for a steak dinner. We had been in disguise but recognized each other right away. The decision was instantaneous. I grabbed a knife and buried it into his throat. Jules did the same to his wife. My grandmother watched the entire thing, horrified. These were innocent victims but we rationalized it away. It was either them or us. Self-preservation. My mom tried to make her understand that these were not good people. But she couldn't shake the image. I remember grabbing the steak we were invited to eat, coldly and somewhat reluctantly, and putting it in a Tupperware to have later as the sirens grew louder. This chase would never end. And we could not kill our way out of it forever.

the blur that was my weekend

Manhattan. Town of extreme character. Patricia Field and Cafe Gitan. So unique. So tasty.
Cheap Mexican beer cans on unimpressed subway carts. Aggressive shorts and women with turquoise shoes. No time to think too much about Amy, the latest fight, the cats or even Tisha being put to sleep.

Do my best to make sure I'm not in the way. No need when I'm here.
Speed walk through dinosaur bones and sleep it off at Yankee Stadium in a pile of your own peanut shells. Dreamy night view of the George Washington Bridge. So tired, Mounamou. Too tired to even gather my own thoughts.
Never did make it to Union Square to see the rats but did see big Mama Bear and her two cubs run away from us in the woods. In Smokerise, with the deer and the gated community folk. Walking through the forest barefoot with Kevin and his air rifle after the pedicures in Astoria. (Actoria). Where Dave and I nearly cracked up under intense tickling. Where we did got lost.
A good shot apparently in the need of a moving target.
Speaking of snipers. Grilled in the Jacuzzi and again the next morning by Camille. Folding under intense questioning. Apparently no longer the smooth talker I once was. Tom remains optimistic about the economy and thinks people generally think too much.

Ain't that the truth.

grace by the gun

at the end of it all i was sitting in the kitchen with Dom. after some good times drifting bikes like madmen, he asked me outright if i truly accepted his relationship with Jules. "my father always believed i had sent my brother back in time to do the dirty work - you know, iron out the kinks so i would have it all figured out in this life," he explained. i could feel his persistence. it was hard to deny. and somewhere in my mind i heard Jules tell him that even if the other band mates simply humoured him with their one good eye on the prize, he was the only one who actually listened and took the time to learn what he really wanted; the only one who was able to look into his eyes and see through his soul. it was hard to deny the connection. but I never admitted so, assuming the silence was enough. he had already asked me when i'd be coming back to LA to visit again. not right away, i replied. i would let them do their thing. besides, i don't even remember being in LA at all. all i could remember was a desert, somewhere between Damascus and Beirut. and i remembered Reda but not Dom. and it was no vacation. Jules and i were being stalked by fighter jets and hounded by a militia jeep. i had been amazed by Jules' calm in the whole situation, like he had been there before. so i followed his lead. i hid where he hid and shot where he shot. still, there came a point where the only place to escape the streaking jet and his wild-eyed pilot was in some cannibalistic town where you were allowed to choose how you were executed. some of the guys caught before us had been shot and then emptied like ripe avocados. their bodies were then filled and used to flavour whatever food was being cooked inside them. i got an image of those edible soup bowls and then those soft shells they used to serve ice cream in at weddings. it was disgusting to watch. and yet, somehow, there was a tinge of poetic justice. like it all made sense out there in the lonely desert.

clocks like ticking bombs

my more violent dreams are always so very violent. last night, i was holed up in some giant villa in the Far East with an enemy i could never really see. the place was entirely booby-trapped. there were explosives hidden in closets and behind closed doors, most of which i managed to track down with just enough time to launch far down the corridor before the big blow back. you know, the way superheroes always find a way to explode dangerous atomic weapons in space - away from the throngs of slack-jawed mortals. my unidentified partner was not so lucky and halfway through the dream, i was on my own. i made my way into one room and found a bunch of young children holding beehive grenades in both hands. they looked strangely elegant in the pose, backing up slowly and without words as my mind raced for a solution.