Fear Living ~ Mikael Covey

September 3, 2008

Cold black, nothing but stars in black night and pale street lamps decorated for Christmas in the dark village in the winter wind. Boys back from war. Johnny come marching home alive and whole in green Army jackets and tennis shoes. Young men still boys looking for young girls eager full of life. Finding them in the cold dark night. Throwing snowballs from rooftops of the downtown shops in the village, running the sidewalks filled with laughing glee anticipation and wisps of snow in the wind. We didn’t care. Just wanting to hold them, the young girls, soft round slinky and warm in zip up jackets and stocking caps. Or to be one of them now; one of the boys home from the war.

Kellen filling the pipe and telling us stories of war. How he lost a red white and blue knee-high boot at the Saigon whore house. House of a thousand rooms, all night and walking out into morning sun with just one boot on. Watching M*A*S*H at the theatre there. It didn’t impress me. “You shoulda been in ‘ Nam ” he says. Grabbing Missie, carrying her over his shoulder to the other room. Long legged little blonde girl with hot tight ass in tight blue jeans. Legs and ass all eager and happy. To be one of those twenty-year olds back from the war with sixteen-year old girls so happy to see you. Not afraid of war and beautiful young girls like touching the face of God with your hard on.

Equus, a boy who blinded horses, blinded horses he worshipped like gods, blinded them to his sex sin with the stable girl. Not wanting them to see. Sexing the girl with everything you have, everything you want and ever will. Or not. Sitting there on the propane storage tank big as a mobile home, round white cylinder like a giant cock ready to blow. Sitting there across from the dancehall as the kids arrive for the dance. The cars drive in and circle around to see who’s there. Watching them from that odd view across the road in the cold dark night by the dirt parking lot by the big dance hall.

Sitting there watching like an oddball scavenger out of sorts from the main. They pick up little stones from the dirt lot and throw at the propane storage tank. Echoing off the gas-filled metal hull. Ping and pong and again that sound of little rocks bouncing off the tank like being pinged on the bottom of the ocean under the stars. Not caring if they hit me or not.

They stone sinners in the Bible, stone them for doing wrong, being wrong. Wrong to be them. Wrong to be. A people thing, the crowd picks up the stones and throws them at the sinner. Wondering if it might explode, the storage tank might have a seeping leak, not so much as to worry the loss, but maybe a spark from a stone might set it off, ignite the whole damn thing in a monstrous blow of exploding gas, like napalm. I want to die but not right now but don’t want to live this way.

Another night of ‘no thank you’s’ and beer and drugs and all that and that and that some more. We drive down to the off-sales liquor store in the back seat smoking the pipe and each grab a quart or a half-pint or a bottle of wine and back to the dance hall and the half’s gone but it tasted good and now it’s gone. I can’t remember her name. She told me her name a week ago or was it two weeks ago but anyway the prettiest girl I ever saw blonde and breasts and round little ass so wantable and the prettiest face I ever saw. She was nice to me. Told me her name but I forgot. “What is your name again?” Go away she says.

And I never ask the ones who want me to ask them, only the ones who want to say no. And I don’t know why but I don’t want to live this way. Sitting there in the cemetery across the road from the big dance hall all quiet now in the cold dark night of four a.m. in the fog and mist and deadly silence. Big stone cross in the cemetery, Jesus and all his saints. Sitting there on top the cross crying in the dark light rain. Alone and so alone and always alone. Another night of ‘no thank you’s’ and beer and drugs and her name I forgot her name and just go away.


Time to Lose ~ Mikael Covey

January 15, 2008

When I was your age you know they say that and you shudder that fuck you geezer shudder like fuck off leave me alone. You’re not my age and probably never were and if you were than it was like turn of the century and not this last one either. And then time goes by or goes bye-bye or something like that but anyway it’s gone. You don’t get it back. You know and I know and it don’t mean jack shit anyway but there it is. You think at some point twenty years ago like that was a long time but I’m still young so what the fuck. And then it’s like thirty years ago you can say that now like fuck man that really is a long time and I aint getting any younger but still in my prime and you know what after that it’s really fucked. So when I was your age…shit forgot what I was gonna say. Oh yeah when I was…and young…and all that you think time is expendable and you know it isn’t but you don’t really know that. Just like it’s a really sad concept, mortality and what not. But when you get to be old and mortal you really can’t worry about it anymore. My father’s ninetyone. He’s hears the nails. If he doesn’t come down and get his mail I dread going up there to see if he still is. And he had dreams too. Went to art school Greenwich Village in the 40’s. Then left that behind and now all he talks about is the left behind and nothing in front to worry about. Global warming I tell him, who cares he says.

You’re right, the 70’s was pretty much sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll. But goddamn, we were trying to stop a war, y’know. Friends of ours were getting killed. Wild times. Long hair, Nixon, bluejeans full of holes patched over with bits of flag. And we were all young. What I remember, what any of us remember, it was pretty much a constant party. Like “yeah, I was high all throughout the 70’s…but it was cool…I think.”

Blacklights, fluorescent posters, bell-bottoms, and the constant smell of incense. It was always dark. I think maybe slept all day. Like living in a Camden Town record store. I liked it. Music was a big part of it.

Two things mattered, getting high and the music. Every week the next band was like the biggest on the charts. Mott the Hoople, Slade, the Allman Brothers, ZZ-Top, Arrowsmith, Lynard Skynard, Alice Cooper, Mountain, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, West Bruce and Lang, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Jefferson Airplane, Heart, Kansas, Head East, Pink Floyd, Foghat, Humble Pie, Savoy Brown, Blue Oyster Cult, to name a few. (I’m working from memory here, y’know.)

We were poor. It’s hard not to be poor when you don’t have a job. But who had time to work. This was a time to live. And you could always sell some dope to be able to buy some more dope, and maybe a bag of cheetos. Get the munchies something fierce. Local bars had to stock ‘em by the case. I suppose they thought it was odd, this run on cheetos all of a sudden, but business is business. Gettin high and playing foosball with the young vets back from the war.

Everybody wearing green Army jackets, even the school kids. Kinda looking like The Clash. Ratty, wasted. Not even fuckin worried about it. Don’t even realize it. We cool. “He aint no fuckin corporal” says Izzy “I’m gonna kick his ass.” Forget it, I tell him. Get some coffee, chill out. Sittin there in the bowling alley wired to the gills. Smoking a cigarette, can’t find an ashtray. Figure you can just flick the ashes into your coffee. So what, doesn’t really matter.

Alice Cooper at the big auditorium. Feels like you got blinders on. Tunnel vision. Beach balls flying around through the haze. Dodge the frisbees soaring across the arena coming straight at you. Duck! Kids selling dime bags. Joints moving across from one end to the other and then both ends at the same time. We got no acid, just popper. Hard to get the same kinda buzz off popper, but what can you do. Then they turn the lights off. Shit, you mean there’s a show on top of it all?

Next show, Ted Nugent comes out “we’re gonna play the songs from our new album.” Fuck you Ted, I paid to hear Tooth, Fang and Claw. Not this new shit. Motherfucker. ZZ Top was the tightest band I ever saw. Well, only three guys, but damn they’re good. Gracie Slick sings all the songs off their Worst album. “One pill makes you larger…” Very clean, great sound. Decent light show, like sunrise in the desert or something. What the fuck.

Arrowsmith is so fucking loud you can’t hear the music, just feel it from inside out. Ears buzzing for two days coming down. Kansas was good, electric violin, Dust in the Wind. Eyes blinking like shutters opening and closing. Feels normal after a while. Like you’re stopped slow-motion draggin yer ass around when you’re not tripping. Doesn’t feel right. The world’s quit spinning like.

Spirit opens for Bachman-Turner Overdrive. I think I remember Nature’s Way. You can actually see the music like it’s floating across in the dark. Kid behind me shaking so bad he knocks over his co-cola. Funny, watching him is like seeing how my insides feel. Then those crazy Canadians pounding their guitars with big mountain man fingers like it was gonna go on forever. I’d like to thank you, I’d like to thank you… Over and over ‘til you kinda lose track.

For some reason they turn the lights on and you have to go home. You shittin me? Janey helps me down the cement steps from the way up high seats. It was so safe and warm up there in the dark. One at a time Mikey, we gonna make it. She got confidence. But I’m gettin worse. Smile at the old cop at the door. Yeah, we goin. Make our way out to the car.

Janey can tell by the way I’m fumbling at my pocket for the cigarettes. She gets one for me, lights it. See, that isn’t so hard. “We gonna go to the house?” Process that one
word at a time. It must mean, are we going to go to the house. Damn, that would mean driving the fucking car through traffic and all. Can’t we just sit here in the parking lot? No, they might think we’re all fucked up or something. My hands shake in rhythm to the blinking of my eyes. But the car key finds its own way in, so… Jesus fuck, O Street in Lincoln. My friends live on F Street. There must be an alphabetical correlation here. Just process it, slowly.