BLUE TATTOOS
by Gary Every

I was reading just past the midnight hour while Dave Letterman's gap toothed smile cast a glow upon the electronic hearth when suddenly there was a tap, tap, tapping at my cellar door. Not a regular knock mind you but a crisp bass drum boom, delivered in sudden flurries like the spasms of an arrhythmic heart. Then it stops.

Starts, startling again, rattling the door against the hinges.

Silence.

Thump, thump, thump, and I rise from my futon, briskly moving as something or someone continues to bang against the door. Peering through the peephole reveals nothing except the void left behind by the burned out porch light. The thumping continues, low on the door like a child or angered dwarf I can feel my pulse, throbbing in my neck, matching the knocks meter for meter. I take a deep breath, fling open the door and greet only the wind.

For just a second I sense something fleeing from the doorstep, passing from shadow into darkness. Do I hear shallow breathing out there, crouching, or is it merely the pounding echoes of my own heart? I sense eyes out there glaring back at me but without my eye glasses my vision on the periphery is blurry.

I become more aware of the wind blowing into my face; steadily more harshly. There is a storm brewing and the omens indicate; dark fortressed thunderclouds, lightning illuminating whole sections of the sky like giant popping flashbulbs, the approaching storm will be a tempest. The winter wind blows past me, letting the midnight chill enter home and hearth. The breeze gusts, crescendoing into a whistle. Across the alley the trash dumpster door swings wildly back and forth.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Imagine a grown man like myself frightened by the wind. The dumpster itself looks absurd, spray painted months ago, it wears some nameless vandals graffiti portrait of a rock and roll god with rebel haircut and stony eyes. The metal door, drawn to be the rockers mouth and lower jaw, careens wildly, pushed open and closed by the wind. Clang clang, clang goes the rock star, belting out the lyrics to some punk industrial anthem.

Just the wind I reason, turning back, but before I shut the door behind me I take one more look, expecting to see those watching eyes. I chuckle to myself, a grown man frightened by nothing. Once the front door is closed the night no longer seems as cold without a breeze to propel the chill.

I retrieve a glass of water, annoyed by the soapy blue film that clings viscously to the sides. I rinse out the glass and refill it, returning to the futon. Me and my water board the futon, piece of furniture folded flat like a raft as if I were floating. The wails of my living room define a horizon as effectively as the endless waves of the sea. Instead of the constellations I gaze upon the wonders of a man made star, somewhere up above in geosynchronous orbit is a satellite beaming down myths. Gradually a vague complacency returns to me and I relax upon my pillowed helm, sipping to stave off thirst; as I commandeer the raft through seas of late night talk show hosts.

I return to my reading leaving the television on to keep me company. The wind grows steadily stronger, bursting into gusts which cause the dumpster graffiti rock star oracle to babble his clanging verse continuously. At last the wind acquires enough velocity to force the door open so that the wind shrieks through the dumpster aperture; the rebel starry eyed rocker erupting into a non-stop wail, unleashing demons.

I try to ignore it, burying myself in the diary of some obscurely famous dead guy. Outside the window a dog barks and I recognize the canine voice. It is the black lab which accompanies Norwegian Bill. Norwegian Bill runs a perpetual yard sale on his front porch, scavenging low priced treasures from the dumpster, while the dog pokes his head here, there, everywhere. I am easily distracted from my bookworm habits tonight and when the news comes on it captures my attention. The local sports team loses; the EPA is testing the city's water supply, and some nuts raided the university, releasing a bunch of rabbits intended for medical experiments. The lab rabbits are easily identifiable because of blue tattoos on their ears and the newscaster reads off a phone number to call for returning fugitive rabbits.

As the news ends I crawl to the edge of the futon raft, stretching to turn off the television. The screen fades from gray to silence and a plaintive cry fills the void. From somewhere outside my house walls, louder than even the fury of the wind, comes a cry for help. A small desperate howl like an abandoned child or toothless old crone drowning. I rush to the door, fling it open, and see only a cat.

Jack cat.

Jack cat, left at the rental complex by Jack the drunk divorcee who had abandoned the place just ahead of the eviction notice. Jack cat still hung around the complex, not really having any place else to go. I had fed Jack cat and he had repaid me by peeing on everything I owned and scratching up my forearm. The wind returns in full force, out shrieking Jack cat's wails, and I shut the door behind me, leaving Jack cat to fend for himself in the feral urban wilderness.

I return to the futon, more aware of the storm brewing outside, the chaos created by the wind, but still I return to my reading. The next distraction comes quickly, high pitched rapid Chinese cursing and the honking of an automobile horn. More dumpster regulars; the Chinese guy on his bicycle--armed with his frog gigging spear--and the retired couple in the pickup truck with the camper squabbling over the same aluminum can hoard, fighting over territorial rights.

Thump, thump, thump, goes my front door, returning again, more rapidly than ever before; rat-a-tat-tat it goes. I try to ignore the knocking but my heart quivers with a tell tale racing, matching the panicked frenzy of staccato hammers at my front door.

The long drawn out yowl of a torn cat's war cry is followed by an odd hiss that makes my back arch; my hairs stand on end. It is a unique cry, a high pitched whine which sounds painful for the speaker to produce and is definitely nonhuman and sounds even non-earthly. I grab my electric camping lantern, heading towards the door, expecting to discover the source of the sound to be something unusual like a pierced leprechaun or baby dragon scalded from flying too close to the sun.

I turn the knob but it is the wind which opens the door, slapping it back towards me. Suddenly, claws rake my shin, from halfway below the knee all the way down to below the ankle. I turn on the lantern, the burst of illumination revealing and freezing the three of us. Jack cat is grimacing, his expression twisted; lips stretched back in a smile which reveals his fangs'anticipating a satiation to his blood lust. Myself, holding the lantern, thrust unexpectedly into some sort of Diogenic role, my shin bleeding where it has been raked by claws. Last but not least, crouching against the wall, back legs kicking wildly, is a very frightened blue tattooed rabbit.

Jack cat pounces.

Reflexively my right leg shoots out, the same leg the rabbit has scratched, and I punt Jack cat, sending his sprawled form flying through the air. He lands on his feet, coughs, and stares at me with a hatred that does not just want me dead but toyed with first. Then he slinks away, relinquishing his hossenfeffer prize; more afraid of me than hunger.

I turn to the rabbit, uncertain of what to do next. The rabbit crouches against the front wall, front teeth chewing nervously, ears flattened back, and as I move towards her with the lantern I can see her eyes go the way a rabbit stands frozen in the middle of the road, too frightened by the approaching headlights to move--eyes reflecting like big white saucers. The rabbit looks so afraid, and I wonder what cruel fate might await it if I return it to the university. Is it even safe for me to handle her, bring her into my home and risk infection?

Laughter races up and down the alley, members of the Church of Freedom, Unity, and Non-violence (F.U.N.), bellow boisterously, scavenging for trinkets and meals, led by a mischievous minstrel who has adopted the name of Bilbo Baggins for his adventures. They roll by on old fat tire bicycles, parts stolen or scavenged.

Suddenly the rabbit darts through the high grass, the spell broken.

I follow, searching the rental complex, the alley, out into the street, the lantern revealing nothing except my feet journeying through the darkness, one step after another. Once I see a shape jump from one shadow to another but I have no idea where the refugee rabbit has headed too.

Eventually the wind dies down, never following through on the threat of rain, and the dumpster rocker silences as his metal door mouth stops swinging. I realize that I am all alone in the alley. Apparently Jack cat, the rabbit, and I are parting ways. From up the alley I hear the approach of one of the dumpster irregulars; an old black woman with Tourette's syndrome, her blasts of profanity accompany her everywhere like fanfares of trumpet heralding her arrival I head back inside the safety of my four walls.

The door shuts behind me and although the tempest has died, the wind nearly extinguished, my house seems chillier than before. I stop for supplies to load upon my futon raft before I sail the network television seas, pausing in the kitchen for a sip of milk. I open the carton from the back, not wanting to look at the missing persons pictured on the cardboard, half imagining the photo of a rabbit there. I put the milk back into the refrigerator before I completely quench my thirst.

I grab a glass of water, lazily leaving the cupboard open, discovering another chalice contaminated by soapy blue film. I dump the glass and drink directly from the faucet, and then notice the blue film clinging to the tap. The cities underground water supplies are questionable and maybe me and the rabbit are both the subjects of medical experiments. Gradually, I shuffle towards the futon for a night of sleep and dreaming, perchance to dream and maybe awaken nevermore.

HAIL HOLY LIGHT
by T. Kilgore Splake

(a tribute to Jack Micheline)

mid-march blizzard, punishing clipper winds
blowing down from canada, "screamers" driving
stinging icy pellets,

curled brown autumn leaf skipping down the
street, twisting, turning, merry dance and
gone,

like fast fading newspaper obituary becoming
ancient, forgotten history,

greybeard poet hiking home, early morning
bakery visit, contesting muse, hoping blank
page filled with fresh verse,

thinking, jack, save a seat, have tall cold
one waiting for me, soon, eh?

corot:memory of mortefontaine
by Gerald Locklin

the pastoral mode has always depressed me.
probably it has something to do with
the popular art of my childhood,
prints and wallpaper in rooms where I
lay feverish with measles, mumps, or
chicken pox. thank god, at least i
wasn't born into a century where even
in so-called high-art the idyll was in vogue.

i know, i know, i know:
it represents the imposition of imagination
on the brutal facts of life,
the grafting of culture onto nature,
the triumph of the civilized.

but how can anyone pretend
that sheep are picturesque?
sheep cover every inch of their surroundings
with a diarrhea that for them is normal.
dog-shit you at least stand a chance of
stepping over.

yes, i've read vergil's georgics,
but i'm not in any rush to re-read it.

please, pipe me no pipe-dream, mr. pan.
i'd rather hang someone's nightmare
on my wall. i'd rather live in a desert.

i guess that new wave is as old
as the aesthetic of the nice.

i guess that an entire style of art
can incorporate repression.

i guess the masculine has always been
under attack by the tame.

and the fountains of true memory are dead.