(haikus: dont call it a comeback)

(i called you back)

to the ones i forgot
long ago: ive called you back,
if only in my mind.

(rambling)

i tend to ramble,
like bramble-covered woods
near slow-moving streams.

(mixtape)

will our cassette-tape-
love survive this playlist world?
who gets the cover?

(jandek sparks: pt. 3)

It’s the first thing I saw the next day – fleshy mounds on scratchy sheets, mottled by through-the-hotel-curtain glints of an early Tuesday. The light reminded me of Uncle Luther. After all, he got me into this.

---

1967.

It’s a different glint, the sparkling mirage of 950 Egyptian tanks in the Sinai’s desert sun. Different than the strafing runs of 188 Israeli planes, filling the air with fractured tarmac and smoking planes. Lighter, with a shifting, a twinkling shine.

Who knows what really started the Six Days’ War. Was it Nasser’s Pan-Arab dream, mired in Yemen and seeing, on Sinai, a new revolution? Or Israel’s greedy farming in the disputed lands of the Northern DMZ? Or was it just another cold proxy war between the USSR and the USA?

Granted, President Johnson stopped the war of annihilation a mere 48 hours before the invasion. But it was just cover for the final SPF cargo trips to the Sinai. No matter. The war was inevitable and the USAF SPF had orders.

Whatever started it, Luther Krautz only saw the first minutes of the first day of that very short war. His cargo plane left the Sinai Peninsula as the Egyptian invasion began, passing the second Israeli sorties of the day as they flew over the Mediterranean. There was no point in looking back – or thinking about the camouflaged boxes they’d left for the advancing Israeli Defense Forces.

At least it wasn’t Vietnam. Yet.

---

Jandek Sparks’ great-uncle Luther Krautz hated Gerald Ford. Then again, being a Yellow Dog Democrat made it a little easier. Ford gave him enough reasons, though – reinforced by the goddamn Tums Uncle Luther kept in a candy jar by the TV.

See, Uncle Luther was a wanderer. He never married, though it wasn’t for lack of trying on other people’s parts. He left a Western Tennessee farm for the coal mines of Birmingham – losing his hair somewhere along the way. The ashen skies of that industrial town weren’t much brighter than the mines he worked 7 days a week.

After a few years tending pecan trees and muscadine vines back home, Uncle Luther joined the Air Force under Eisenhower and left under Ford. Special Provisions Force (SPF), he called his small group. They delivered the secret support of American Presidents for decades.

He only talked about it twice – once, on the phone, when Jandek made his first and final beer-soaked call to his Uncle (a transcript follows). Then again, the last time Jandek saw him alive.

The final flight of his SPF landed at Jandek’s home base – Columbus Air Force Base, Mississippi (second longest military runway in America, thank you very much).

He drove a Nissan to his death, just to spite Ford and all the other American bastards.

(jandek sparks: pt. 2)

“I feel like we’re celebrities, we’re just not famous.”

“Aye, aye, El Capitan.” No, really. I feel the same way. Exactly.

In the past three years, we – the royal kind – have been in hundreds of magazines and newspapers and 15-second national news round-ups. The royal we, here, is El Capitan Zinn, a very-muted-gray jetliner, and me. If you haven’t seen us, we’ve done our job. Air hearsing, I call it.

See, it’s our official job to pick up the remains of VIPs – think soldiers, think politicos, think flag draped coffins – and transport (read: fly) them wherever the in-state or at-rest journey leads. You’ve seen the pictures.

Take, for example, former President and Nixon-pardoner Gerald Ford. Here is his story, or what I could remember from the History Channel.

Born Leslie Lynch King, Jr. Yes. Leslie. Ford’s parents – Leslie Sr. and Mom – separated 16 days after he was born. A knife was involved, they say. Gerald didn’t know he was Leslie for another 16 years – and 38 years until a racist bastard lynched M.L. King Jr.

Granted, the new name helped him. Ford didn’t quite have the best given name for politics. Lynch King Jr.? After the assassination in Memphis? As if the black community needed another reason to hate Republicans.

But, in the end, Ford was just an Accidental President – not supposed to be in that oval office, or face-down on that tarmac, or pardoning that sonofabitch. Plus, he wasn’t a joiner. Masons. Eagle Scouts. Shriners. DKE. Military, active. Military, retired. Football. America First Committee.

He died in late 2006, post-Xmas Day. 6:45pm to be exact. He was 93 years, 165 days, 7 hours and 58 minutes. Seconds are unknown.

---

Here’s my “how I found out Gerald ‘Leslie Lynch King, Jr.’ Ford is dead” story…

My cell rang, woke me up from a fantastic nap. And the TV – I always nap with the TV on – said, well, really, the narrator on the TV said, “Former President Ford died blah blah blah.” I thought it was the History Channel. I thought he was dead, but earlier. Like disco-in-the-80s dead.

Who was on the phone? Nevermind her. The point is, the Former President died and I had to work.

We, the royal one, took the remains cross-country. We, the royal one, never attend the services – take off, land, unload, (if at-rest, goto bar; if in-state, goto wait for next takeoff). We, the royal one +Ford, made it on the front page of USA Today.

It’s odd, really, to know that so many people expect you, but not really you. Like when +Ford flew over Ohio. No one saw us (nor did we see them, the clouds of Ohio servings as a kind of purgatory). But they knew we were overhead. Just not the royal we – the “Ford + airplane” we.

(jandek sparks: pt. 1)

No one expects an air hearse to crash. Well, we’ll get to that in a minute.

Let’s see. I could begin with my title. Private Captain Commander. Who knows the difference? Sure, sounds good (especially in the airport lounge), but it’s not like I’m a Detective or a Chef. It’s not a useful name.

Ok, so I am First Mate Jandek Sparks on the xxxxxxxxxxxx. That means I help El Capitan Zinn in all things aeronautical. Second-in-command, really. All the glory, none of the go-down-with-the-ship-ness.

For example, I am currently helping Zinny pick up the strays from his Upper Youghman’s Reuben during the +Ford flight. It’s what I do, really.

Ok, to tell the truth, I’m a third generation member of the USAF SPF.
---

Here are a few things we might have in common. Keep score, won’t you?

-- I never wear jeans, blue or otherwise.
-- I rarely add an extra “s” to words, though that’s a common thing for Southerners.
-- I know this guy, Fuckin' Frankie let’s call him, who sells the Natty Lite of pot outside the BK on Oakdale.
-- I immediately say “jetliner” when given the word “longest” during free association exercises.
-- I have never purchased two crack rocks, Mad-Dog, and a Finnish hooker.
-- I like plane-skips when landing in my hometown.
-- I will never understand the Beach Boys, though the Go-Go’s make perfect sense.
-- I do not like daisy dukes; they look really uncomfortable and are generally found on ho tangles.
-- I use the word “really” too much, really, and tend to start too many sentences with a conjunction (for emphasis, I tell myself).
-- I enjoy dry toast.

If you answered, “Yes! We have this in common!” to any question, you are a poseur and have no place in this short story.

(notes from another time)

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

As they say in the retail world (where, all things being equal, I will soon be found), let us take stock of the situation. I’ll make it interesting, dear readers. These are a) my life and/or b) lyrics from great songs.

Another day older and deeper in debt? Check.

That he was all but lost so deep was his coma? Check.

Working for the church while your life falls apart? Check

It’s usually threes, I know, but rules?

My heavy head is full of debris. Yes, it is.

This one, this last Check, this one I’ll source – As Tall As Lions, “Stab City.”

Not that it’s profound – I’ve outgrown early-twenties existentialist self-pity. No, it is, what’s the term? Apropos (French: à propos lit., to purpose; Latin ad prōpositum lit., to intention).

It is apropos, considering the debris, when every idio(t)matic phrase is a study in logical substitution. To wit – “B., you have to dig your(self)(pronoun/prepositional phrase) (a) hole.” An example – “B., you have to dig yourself out of a hole.”

So, you see. A hole.

I’ve been digging. And digging. And digging. Out and under and over and every other way/direction/destination. It is not working. Headlamp’s out. Last prison spoon broken. Boots in the muck a few miles back. I am left humming the lost canary’s song – a lilted twitter echoed from me, not her.

I lack the proper implements, you see.

And, now what? What the fuck am I supposed to do?

(i saw the sun today)

I saw the sun today as it slipped through the clouds. The straight, steely shafts melted as the curtains closed again. At least that's how I felt.

Sometimes seeing the sun – just for a moment – is enough. Today it wasn't. I know she means well, as they say. Just reminding me that I have to wake up at some point and that I might even want to go outside today, since I didn't yesterday.

She's just trying to help.

She just didn't know that I remembered him again.

The Good Dr. says I shouldn't talk about it quite that way. I can't help it. It's not that other thing. That word – dream? It’s not right.

Last Saturday I told The Good Dr. my theory. I have a few, really, but this was the theory of shared dreams. First, I told him, let's agree that dreams rank somewhere above vacation slide shows and below Midwestern ballet on the Lifetime Boredom Scale. Second, let's agree that dreams are personal. Agreed?

So, my theory of dreams – and the reason I remembered him – is that we cannot share dreams. They are unitary and boring and impossible to share.

This, I can share.

I last saw him – and always remember him – on the far side of my parent’s house. He wore the uniform of a man his age – a simple white dress shirt, long sleeves unbuttoned and starting to roll up. The thin material was hardly enough to hide an old a-shirt underneath. In his chest pocket, the free glasses case he'd used all his adult life and behind that, the bulge of Redman chewing tobacco.

His pants, as always, were a simple khaki. For some reason I can remember the belt – black leather – but have no idea what kind of shoes he wore. Granted, for church, he wore zip-up, high-top leather boots. But, today, a Saturday, I don't know. I can never remember the shoes.

I still don't know what he was doing there by the shed, under the kudzu-covered oaks and pines. I always remember him there – or hunched over the beige Ford sedan parked in our driveway, tinkering again.

That’s where I stop.

The sun interrupted me again. It does that here in Ohio, in early winter.

Half a life ago, the sun started this damned interrupting. It rained all day. From the moment I left for the funeral home to the family-only interring, it rained. Then, just as we left, the sun reminded me it was there above the clouds. God's fingers, they call it. Then the rain, again.

Before the sun interrupted, I was remembering what he (The Not-So-Good Dr.) told us right before he (not The Not-So-Good Dr.) really died. There had been false alarms that week. This was, well, what would you call it? The real alarm.

He passed, he said.

Outside, before it all disappeared, I saw azure skies and rippled clouds framed by the afternoon sun.

What?

He passed.

And I doubled over.

I became my own storm cloud.

Thundering fists.

Driving tears.

Howling sobs.

I was a tempest, littering the waiting room floor with a day's worth of useless tissues.

I hated every goddamn glimpse because he couldn't see it, too.

Have you ever felt such bone-shattering loss? And known that slow march was for you, all for you?

Now, half a life later, I'm remembering him for the last time. No more interruptions, Mr. Golden Sun. Tomorrow, it's her turn to remember me.

(i see them all)

but, don’t be still!
come closer with your golden word –
the one around your ankle, bright.
i want to speak it a hundred-fold.
i want to see it, touch it, climb it
to the
top
or
bottom –
wherever it leads.

sprint after me

after i reach the canopy,
i want to burn my fingertips
on the surface of the earth
and walk forever inside the sun.

then,
in the sultry afternoon,
pluck the wildest rose
and press it between our hands –
the ones that grab each other
in love’s abandon,
in inexhaustible grace.

they are never still.

in the field, friend,
hold my hand.
in the clouds – see it, too.
and in the sky we’ll run –
tripped and falling and never alone.

i will never catch you.

-