Nacho Rex

Two bites into the first fried nacho ball

I know this is no mistake. It is a revelation,

a flavor revolution, a texture portmanteau

that ends with a cheese plasma core

the dairy cherry on top of this county fair Benedict.

A bite into the second fried nacho ball

I consider that I may have bitten off

more than I can chew, but I can chew

a lot so I forge onward - ever onward.

The third fried nacho ball sits alone,

issues its bright orange challenge

to my face, to my mouth, to my honor.

I accept, of course, because I am

no coward. No, I am the hero

devourer of worlds

King of fried nachos.

The Second Date

When I was eight years old, I caught a leprechaun.

He was taller than I thought he'd be - almost my height. I remember him looking like a child with a grown-up's face, dressed in loose clothing. He didn't wear green, except for a bright green feather in his cap. He said his name was Ril.

Catching him was quite the task. I had made an entirely inappropriately sized trap that in hindsight would have only caught a dormouse. I was hiding behind my bed when Ril climbed into my window, and broke the trap with a single step. The pieces ended up slicing through the fabric of his shoe, and when he ventured into my closet to look for a replacement, I vaulted over my bed to slam the closet door and sit against it so the leprechaun couldn't escape.

He was quite agitated at first, and thrashed around the closet for a clip, knocking down hangers and kicking shoes this way and that. Soon, he calmed down and - as the stories my teacher had read to me that week in class had taught me - offered me three wishes.

I immediately wished that I didn't have a sister, which didn't make sense, because as I finished the sentence, I realized I didn't have a sister. I had never had one - I was an only child. The voice from the closet assured me that it was done, and that I had two more wishes, but I was furious at myself for having wasted a wish on a sister that had never existed.

Instead of making another wish, I stood up and opened the door. The light hit the inside of the closet and the leprechaun blinked, looking into my eyes at amazement. In a flash, he was running past me, jumping onto my bed, bouncing higher than I had ever bounced, headed straight for the window.

I shouted at him, wished that I had never opened that closet door, but he was gone. I ran to the window and looked around, but there was no sign of him. No green footsteps, no trail to follow. I sat down resigned on my bed, and that's when I heard it.

A rustle from inside my closet. I looked over and noticed that the closet door was closed. And there! Was the handle turning? I slammed back against the door, heard another bump from inside - or perhaps it was my body against the door - and waited.

After a few minutes, I spoke through the doorway, asking Ril if he was there. There was no response, but I knew he was. I knew that this wish had worked, and that I now had one more.

So, yes, Ruth, there is a very good reason why that dresser is in front of that door. And, yes, that's why I have full confidence when I say I can literally make any wish of yours come true. So, let's have it. What's your wish?

Things That I Could Get Away with Saying If I Was a Victorian Gentleman Suitor

1.
You have pierced my heart, Miss Sparrow, and I fear that I cannot now - nor may ever be able to - remove you from that most vital organ without doing irreparable damage as a consequence. You are lodged there permanently, and it is my burden to carry you with me for all the remaining days.

2.
You are blameless, Jane. Does one urge the sun to stop shining because one perspires? Does one command a stream to stop its course so as to retrieve a bauble that floats away? No, and neither should any man need you to acquit your smiles or shield your eyes. The fault, dear Jane, lies in my weakness and not in your strength. You must shine and I must bear it accordingly.

3.
My fondness for you grows day upon day, and I have more than once put pen to paper in a foolhardy attempt to use the written word as my ally in lovemaking. And yet! The words I write are nonsense, as like a child trying on the suits he finds in his father's bureau when left alone. I feel as if I have climbed the beanstalk and know not how to act. Your opinion dwarfs all other opinions, your grace overshadows all else, and your face instills in me a sense of awe that strikes me dumb. Speak, Diana, and restore my words to me.

4.
I find it impossible to imagine you as my wife, little Rose, and I find it impossible to imagine you as anything else. I did not come to Rook House looking for romance, and yet romance has found me. You are strange and ineffable and quite insufferable and have bound up my soul inexcusably in my short time here. Had I but heeded my prayers and avoided stopping here, I should have saved both of us a mountain of troubles and also doomed us both to an unhappy life. The truth of it is, Rose, that there is only one fact that we can seem to agree on, and it is that a marriage between us is inevitable, and I have never been one to stand in the way of inevitability.

5.
I'm not dancing with her. She's a peasant and the color in her cheeks is no maiden's blush but more likely from the heat of a kitchen fire. Good God, man, don't be daft. I'm a Duke.

#Shakespeare400

It's Shakespeare's 400th deathday! Here is a small collection of sonnets.

I wrote the first one today.
The second is from when our cat Daisy died.
The third is one I wrote in college for a poetry class.


Words, Words, Words
In days of youth when dreams were fledgling still
and fortune smiled not on my face or hair,
when those that dared to gaze would scowl until
their judgement they pronounced: more plain than fair.
Within that selfsame time when I did doubt
that all my qualities would ever sum
to any meat amount, I learned about
how Shakespeare wrangled language, made it hum
with sparks and passion ere I had not known.
This man was not renowned for strength he showed
or comely brow. No! From his pen had grown
his peers' respect amid the words he sowed.
From his example, I - dear reader - claim:
if one can write, all else is but a game.

Bicycle Built for Two
You were my present back before it all
became about string cheese and potty time,
a furry mewing skittish scuttling ball.
We welcomed you, feline partner in crime.

And with the passage of the months, the years
steadfast and so aloof you did remain
in that November week when Princess fears
ripped through the house, a cliche brake-less train.
You cared not for human propriety
and chose to poop and pee where you did want,
raising a civil notoriety
each rebel yell a kind of loving taunt.
Each flower in the field can claim the prize,
but other than our Daisy, all are lies.

When half asleep 

When half asleep in sheep pajamas, late

at night or just before sunrise, you turn

and toss my hand from off your breast, create

inside my head some inkling of concern.

As I begin to ask myself what dreams

are cooking in your subconscious stewpot,

my own bubbles over with panicked screams

of woe, anguish, and others I’ve forgot.

But then you push your body back against

mine, like two twins together again at

last.  From your mouth a whisper of nonsense

about Jell-O kittens and that is that.

I realize, as I drift off to slumber

that two and one can be the same number.

It's Hard to Say No When Jesus Wants to Hang Out

"Do not be afraid," Jesus says as he plops himself
down on the couch, an exhausted sigh floating up
toward heaven but catching itself on the stucco ceiling,
"for I bring you multiple bags of Bugles."
He tosses them, one two three four -
probably two bags more than necessary
but who am I to tell Jesus how many
bags of Bugles are too many -
onto the coffee table.
He reaches for the remote, pushes a few buttons
ineffectively, realizes his mistake and picks up
the PS4 controller, muttering his annoyance.
"I'm going to put on an episode of Jessica Jones,
OK?" he asks then starts the episode
without waiting for my response.
It's fine, of course.

"It's Easter tomorrow," I say
making small talk
making any talk I can
but Jesus just grunts, rolls his eyes
like he's heard it all before.
"I don't believe in you," I say
and I regret it or maybe I don't but it's too late.
I want to leap forward and catch my words but they're gone.
"I don't need you here," I say
"I don't want you here," I say
and things are getting real
because Jesus pauses Jessica Jones
and I shout - when did I start shouting -
"why did you buy so many bags of Bugles?"

He touches my shoulder and I'm suddenly
aware of how much sadness he contains,
how his ocean so completely engulfs my thimble
and I want to apologize but I can't
because Jesus is talking.
"Sometimes shitty things happen
and the only thing I can do
is show that I know you like Bugles.
You don't need to understand.
You don't want to understand.
That's why I'm here."

And Jesus is crying now
so ugly and so beautiful
and I kind of want to lick his face
because what do his tears taste like?
But that's creepy, that's super weird
so I smile and nod and unpause Jessica Jones
and open a bag of Bugles.

Soliloquy

The necessary training of our lives comes not from the teachers

of our youth nor the extended speech of our fathers,

noble in their causes yet ultimately forgotten.

No! It comes oft too late or too slowly

from the simple passage of time, that fickle friend.

And so I find myself these few days as a man torn

between heaven and hell, limbs attached to a collection

of carriages, growing unintentionally taller each hour.

I cannot deny that I am filled with a great melancholy

that finds root in the inevitable losses humans bear,

but never comprehend 'til faced with a mirror'd countenance

so unlike our own that sadness's nature is revealed.

And yet, am I not blessed with the love of angels

in form not unlike my own?

Do I not yet have my own health and fortune

and the promise of the sun yet returning?

For a man may wish his time astride this earth be easy,

banishing every frowning rain cloud that dares appear.

Is not such a life fraught with the peril of the first snowfall?

Would not one stray flake undo such a man?

'Tis better then to face our troubles and answer

blow for blow when the winds of strife do come our way.

Undone (Part 3)

The squad car pulled into the station and the pair walked into the station.  It had been a little over a  month since Sebastian had been at the station, although life had continued there - as it had everywhere else - seemingly oblivious to his absence.

As Sebastian headed toward the front doors of the station, his babysitter quickly corrected him.  "Incorrect building, Detective Ford.  We'll be meeting in the auxiliary office building."  He directed Sebastian to the smaller structure with a quick point.

Sebastian turned to head toward the auxiliary offices and wondered who he was meeting with.  He had originally thought he'd be talking to the Captain, but Slater's offices were in the main building and there was little reason for him to ever leave it.  The auxiliary offices were used for R&D, bureaucratic overflow, and...interrogations.

"Wait," interjected Sebastian as he grabbed his companion's arm. "What kind of meeting is this, exactly?"

"I'm uncertain what you mean, sir. It is a meeting in that you will be sitting down with a active member of the force and talking about the new assignment you've been given. It is the very definition of a meeting, but I cannot give you further details on the content of your assignment, if that is what you are looking to obtain."

"No, of course not," responded Sebastian. "Let's just go in and find out what this is all about."

The auxiliary offices were used for auxiliary purposes for a reason.  As they stepped into the conference room of the building, Sebastian was reminded of how roomy and brightly lit the rooms in the other building were.  No wonder they conducted interrogations here.  One could get depressed being left alone in this room for too long, let alone working here day after day.

A few minutes passed and Sebastian noticed that the messenger was still sitting beside him with a blank expression.  Sebastian turned to him with a friendly smile.  "You don't have to keep me company, you know.  I'm sure you have other business you need to get to.  I'm not going to run away."

"No, there is no reason for you to run, Detective Ford.  But my instructions were to be present at the meeting with you should you choose to accept the assignment."  The man returned Sebastian's smile, ever so briefly.  "For the time being, it appears, " he continued, "you are my business."

Sebastian's brow crinkled.  He was about to figure out exactly what that might mean when a thin pale man walked into the room.

"Ah!  Detective Ford!  So glad to see you."  The man took his place across the table, extending his hand.  Sebastian shook it slowly, attempting to find that place in his brain where he had stored this man's identity.  His face looked familiar and Sebastian was certain he had seen him around the station before.

"I'm Andrew Sullivan, the chief scientific officer here.  I'm sure we've seen each other around the station before but I didn't really know your name either before the suspension.  No offense."  Sullivan blurted out the last sentence as he realized how callous he had sounded.

Sebastion shook his head dismissively.  He was sure everyone at the station knew about his outburst and suspension.  It was hardly news that it had even reached the ears of the lab geeks.

Sullivan continued.  "I'm glad you decided to come in.  We have an exciting assignment for both you and our Messenger Unit here."

Sebastian held up his hand.  "Wait...Messenger Unit?"

Sullivan gestured toward the man sitting beside Sebastian.  "The man we sent to pick you up.  He's a robot - one of the newest prototypes based on human appearance, behavior, and social patterns."  The scientist smiled broadly.  "Didn't you notice?"