Table Readings

Musings and blogging .

[table-readings]

Jesus wore sandals, you wear sandals. The heat from the flames seared from out the window of the black Buick. Emails from job recruiters are trying to make you work for them. Work for the man. Don’t use your brain. Be my slave. You do not exist. You exist for me. Washington D.C. has a neighborhood; and walking deeper and deeper into its trap will lead to the retelling of the Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. My GPS is my angel, pointing me in the right direction. A cliché, yes, but how very true. The Washington Post stand is blocking the entrance to the corner store like a trusted guide. There’s a lock on the box that holds the newspapers. I’m a Vietnamese American man. Man, Whites, black, Hispanics, Asians; they, all give me weird looks. Emotions course through the stem. Sleep awaits, but NaS said, “sleep is the cousin of death.” There is this beauty-skin book sitting on the balustrade of light green row-house, propped against a neat, white fence that holds in the pink magnolias. Rain drops on the book. Pattering along the cover, the raindrops, slipping, now running down the cracked brick, seeping into a cigarette butt. This is the neighborhood. The book is hope. Allah, God, Buddha The can from the soda company is in the grass in the D.C. Neighborhood. Who put it there? It is raining, cleaning my body. The rain is pouring and I feel like I’ve found my calling. It is to form the language. And as that epiphany smacks me in the face, my left side of my brain starts hurting. What does this mean? Am I truly waking up from the dream? I understand. You’re listening to me. The raindrops fell on my glasses and I felt my vision was changing. The cloudiness disappeared from the lenses. Cay’s pain-stricken face turned into a smile, full of happiness, full of friendship. He’s a good friend. I’m the bad one. I want to be good. I want to be good. It’s change. For the better, for real. When it was raining, The lightbulb popped up outside. And I finally had the lightbulb speak to me for the first time. I knew I was a bad person and now I needed to change into a good person. The car stops moving forward, I turn the engine off, And go back to the beginning.

[table-readings]

Vendetta

A college dropout takes an order At a drive-thru window on a humid day. He looks at his customer until she mumbles And drives away. She shouldn’t feel so special; That’s the fifth time he’s won a staring contest. He steps away from the register and Wraps his headphones around his neck. He rests His elbows on the countertop and cups his face. Across the room is a cherry-blotched faced kid, Strapped into a baby bjorn. She munches on golden French fries from a Happy Meal. Ketchup splatters Onto the Captain America T-Shirt, causes a frown.

A mother tilts her head up, laughing at a text From her lover. Her manicured finger wipes off The red sauce, but the stain is permanent. Somewhere In Africa , a child infected by Aids, carries an AK-47 behind his back and a machete on his Hip. He believes in John Wayne and tokes An ounce of Opium before supper every night. This is the same child who a few years ago Was sent twenty dollars and coloring pages by mail From a single-mother with a baby bjorn, who Wanted to feel like a good person. He wrote back To his pen pal always after target practice.

One day he asked for a pocket bible and a box of Glow-in the-dark crayons. A week later He got a letter in the mail saying there is no God, no Virgin Mary; scripture is polluted By modified words. Only the poetry makes sense. P.S. she said: No colors shine in the dark; Besides we only discern with our cones and rods. They boy crumpled the letter in the ball And tried to flush it in a porter potty. It just laid there. He was famished. Not from lack of food, but lack Of the familiar. Today, the college dropout passes out On his basement futon after making $7.50 an hour.

He forgot the dreams he invented during childhood. His mother Died in child labor. At her funeral, behind the cemetery, His father shot himself in the eye. Right in the pupil So that he didn’t have to see her ghost vanish Every night. Only half of his brain was blown away, A lobotomy already took most of it last spring. The Dropout slides underneath a wood blanket and turns Up the volume on MTV. 16 and pregnant is on. Rich girls cry because they built life by an accident. Their country boyfriends don’t know what to do. One boyfriend got a job at the local auto shop. He played Second –string quarterback on the varsity squad and

Raced phantoms with his Honda Civic after practice. Now he Sweats elbow-grease and drinks Jack Daniels before Happy hour. Another show plays. RJ Berger Pulls down his pants, whips it out, and cockslaps His Bully in the jaw. Later that day he takes the Virginity of the Bully’s girlfriend. Mary Something. She bleeds the color of red magnolia. Her petals Are crushed, pollinated by a yellow jacket’s stinger. On a dried grass land, the rebel soldier Smokes a Spanish cigarette and takes a dump In a watering hole. He squats while reading An advice column and the horoscope.

[table-readings]

EDM

You painted your eyelids with green velvet and ruby red. The fractured mirror kept your insecurity at bay, as sparkle blue glitter poured all over your head from a little tin can.

We drove across the bridge, and through Shocko bottom, stopping at a nearly deserted parking lot sanctioned by an honor code. We double parked behind an Acura sedan, and waited as you snorted half a gram of Molly off your manicured fingernail into each nostril.

You took in a deep breath, smoked a Parliament, and blew smoke out the window. After ten minutes we shambled out of the car with our purses tucked under our armpits, and red fire dying in our eyes. When we reached the Hat Factory venue, the line disappeared from our view and we walked to the entrance where two bouncers were posted up. The tall giants marked our hands with black sharpie ink, drawing a large, bold “X” on each one.

Once inside the spacious warehouse, we ascended a white marble staircase and paid a ten dollar entry fee. Another doorman took out his marker and drew a red line, crossing through the dark black “X” that was drying on our hands. You broke off and away, going straight to the bar. The bartender asked what you wanted to drink, and you requested water. She smiled and gave you a red solo cup filed with tap water and ice-cubes. After you thanked her, she handed you a bright pink glow stick that you wrapped around your forearm, fitting a figure 8 around your skin like a cloth sleeve.

On the stage was a young man dressed in neon colored plaid and skinny jeans. He climbed up a tall stepladder and jumped from the top, belly flopping on a beautiful African Queen bodacious gluteus Maximus, daggering deep into her soaking black spandex, the decadent bodies swimming on top of each other, stroking and staining the pink gymnastic mat with hot sweat and salt. A huge beach ball colored with red, white, yellow, and blue pinwheel stripes sailed through the air over the balcony, smacking into a deathly thin model who was smoldering her Parliament cigarette into a clear glass ashtray.

Mollywopped undergraduates gathered around circles where reggae artists harpooned inflatable black and white killer whales with thrift store bought switchblades.

Laying flat on his stomach was an Asian photographer snapping away with his Nikon digital SLR camera, pale hipsters in dirty black blazers and black fedoras hurling red and purple plastic assault rifles into the intense mass of worry-stricken college students carefree for the moment, gyrating and grinding to the womp-womp bass booming from rectangular speakers that squished in a disc jockey and his hardwood stand with his mixer and two turn tables. He scratched the needle along the worn edge of a battle-scarred vinyl record. His fingers zigzagged the sliders, pressed down on buttons, turned up the volume knobs.

Some hyper-maniac golden child bounced around the dance floor, sneaking up behind university sophomores mesmerized by the makeshift floodlights in the rafters blinking on and off. Conversations were made in the head, but never opened up when the girl approached. Stuck up super senior girls with heavy black mascara and matted eyelashes raised their eyebrows and swatted away horny flies with a wave of their lotioned hand.

Prude girls dress in high heels and septum piercing, their ear cartilage stabbed through by unclean metal. A rude person bumps into the Hyper-maniac golden child, causing the golden child to shove squarely into the rude person’s back. Name-calling ensues, threats fired and received, looks exchanged and bitterness rose over any other tension in the fuming room.

In the far right corner were a couple of kids making out; they’d just met.

Walking away from the fight, sidling between sweaty ugly people, the golden child swayed upstairs to the second floor, passed another bar and balcony tables, chairs, and dance platforms. He went through a swinging door and joined a conversation between a bunch of strangers. Wary around the golden boy, he starts practicing his standup Comedy routine, almost bombing on the first joke. Cheap jacks burned bright orange after a blue flame ignited the tapered paper end. Arms snared around the golden child’s body. Oh how nice! It was his friend from Modern Grammar class, he used to sit next to her in the second row and copied homework answers from the blackboard with her. She was happy. And he was happy.

[table-readings]

Controlla

Control the guns. Or unload on one. Under the hopeless sun. Or control the shooters who stole his future. Patrol in stupor when the gaping hole is super. Rolling in supras. Holding and maneuver, round the bend. Good lord, glad I found the pen. But white men found the pen. In there, Black men down and spent. And they're wasting away in the pen. Write a letter to their friends. Either their behind the bars, or drinking in bars, or rhyming these bars. Spit it like I got tobacco juice in my mouth. Another shooting in the south, while I watch from the couch. Kendrick said we gon be all right. And I'll believe him, when everyone has the same rights. When the white man know wrong from right. But just because you're light in your skin, it doesn't mean you're gone from light. Let this song break fights. Still though, as long as we're nice, you'll still invite us to smoke bongs and pipes. But when the summer heat scorches the streets and the Porsches, next to the fortress with the smooth grain porches, you will ignore this. Warning shot coming at you, hot enough to light torches. I wake up every day thinking life is gorgeous, but at night I still walk like the tortoise. No more of this. Blood spilling on the pavement, now you wonder why I lounge in the basement. They say practice patience. They say keep waiting. They say there's saving. Pop a pill, forget about life, start raving. Po-po after the po, so send Edgar Allen Poe with a raven. Calling us kings, like this Game of Thrones, but this war is ancient. God vs. Satan. Medusa vs. the Maiden. Neo vs. all the agents. Take hits before I escape to the matrix. Tired of eating fake shit. Make spliffs, out of makeshift wooden ships, that Cuba Gooding Jr. Gripped. Won't take lip, go and save it. Why are they loved and we hated? Emotion flowing from the mac and the healing potion flowing from the track. Go in the back. Put the slow motion in the stacks, the records from class, tethered in snacks. America's anger is growing in fact, because every one knowing life's back. Shoot the body and throw it in the back. Fiction, or reality? Turn on the television, that has driven your vision to a complacent state of living. And you wonder why we're so forgiving? But we're never forgetting. This here is armageddon. This is how life be when karma getting to be like, getting to be like, getting to be like fatal. Like Cain did abel. Death, or disabled. Missed the fable, because I kissed the label. Then the bottle, as I went and risked the stable. Now I'm gathering my crew and we're pissed and a holes. Hear the shot ring from Baton Rouge to Chicago. Thinking about becoming a florist. Foreigner in this land of tourists. Listening to beats from Morris. Joshua hit me up for the chorus. How many black Americans need to die? If it were white people, would you ignore this? #blacklivesmatter

[table-readings]

Why Do you Hurt Yourself?

Why Do you Hurt Yourself?

 She plucks feathers from the tiny hole in her comforter, handing them to my trembling hands as if she were giving me pockets of conversation. I crumble the feathers with my fingers, feeling the softness and the lightness. She gets up and ambles on to the bathroom, as I drop the feathers. When she is blow-drying her gorgeous black hair, I step outside the house and onto the patio to smoke a cigarette, knowing she will not approve. I sip on black coffee, hoping my breath will reek a little less. After I finish I come back inside and she walks into the room, telling me she smells the smoke. I feel embarrassed. I look down at the carpet counting all the black and brown spots, then I come across the feathers, so white and immaculate. I move closer to her and run my fingers through her hair, feeling the knots and the curls, leaning forward to kiss her lips, thinking that it will rectify the situation. She pushes me away and asks "Are you trying to get cancer?" She crosses her arms and huffs, narrowing her brown eyes at me as if I were a suspect in a crime. I put my hands on top of my head and try my best not to shrug, but I cannot help feeling indifferent. And that feeling makes me think that I'm careless. She shakes her head and taking a step, she scoops the feathers from the carpet and shoves them back into the comforter. Glancing back at me she asks, "Why do you hurt yourself?" And I do not have an answer for her.

[table-readings]

Cell

An airplane crashes into an uncharted island and hundreds of people die in the burning debris, and somewhere a group of boys and girls are taking selfies as they stand next to a burning office building.

 Thousands of teenagers sit on the couch and eat ice cream until the buttons on their pants explode off.

 Kids light themselves on fires as if they were monks from the Tiananmen Square, trying to gain acceptance, their dreams of stardom translated through a series of YouTube comments.

 We can't afford books for college because the tuition is ridiculous, but these glossy tabloid magazines are only a few bucks; pick one to set the course of your life.

 Middle-aged people spend their lives indoors, away from the thirsty, hungry, withering children, and check how many likes did their photos receive on their smartphones.

 Pornographic images in front of our tired faces, our eyes locked to the screen and we do not blink as our memories become embedded with objectification.

 So we don't look up and see the chaos transpiring.

 Cat memes and colorful gifs hold our attention while our parents slave away at their boomerang-shaped desks, trapped in clustered cubicles.

 I saw a post on Facebook of a girl who was sexually assaulted at a house party and now her name was being hashtagged and kids were posing in photographs, laying on the floor, legs and arms sprawled out, left and right, trying to mimic the injustice.

 We swipe right to find our future hookups, but what if our future husbands and wives were on the left?  

 Society spends millions of dollars on drinks to numb our conscience, until our brain cells are wretched like the homeless guy on the street corner drinking liquor from a coffee mug.

 Israel and Palestine battle each other day after day while our generation gossips about Solange Knowles beating up Jay-Z with her patent leather purse as if that news conquers every other bit of information out there.

 The world will always be corrupt, but it suffers more from the apathy that belongs to us.

[table-readings]

Journal entry No.43

Journal Entry No. 43 We lived in a house made of sand and glass, far away from the mainland, across from a vast ocean covered in snow. I exposed your eyes to the television that was full of light and promise, and then I took it away in the middle of the night and dug a hole in the muddy ground and filled it with your extinguished passion and slices of your cadaver. From Chattanooga to Washington D.C., we traveled in a rowboat across treacherous waters, waves the size of skyscrapers, coasting through narrow passages packed with sheet metal and raw ice. For hours I laid on my blue sofa and read multiple pages of The Windup Bird Chronicle and Norwegian Wood, hoping the characters would resolve the inner conflict that I harbored deep inside of my pit. Cecilia never wanted to plunge her body into the swamp, while the alligators chewed on the bones of caribous, it reeked of misplaced pleasure and broken promises. I promised you I would build a white cathedral, but the smooth stones sat in the gazebo, waiting to be cut and shaped, the red brick stayed untouched, like the small of your back. Crazy women have entered my dreams and have died in my nightmares. Cecilia gave me a rusted anchor and tied it around my neck, loosening it only to plant a wet kiss on my adam’s apple, as she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “A universe exploded in the bottom of a wine bottle.” I followed her into the depths of the lush green forest, carrying a dagger and a flashlight. I shined the light on the brown bear that was eating honey from a collapsed hive. The dagger felt heavy in my hand, but I didn’t budge, and for minutes I stood there observing the eating habits of the brown bear, sweat dampening below my wrists. Years went by, Cecilia growing bitter and resentful, having to mop off the marble floors with a wet rag, and wipe down the counters with a paper towel. Chore after chore, all this weight and animosity created something fierce and unsavory in her. I climbed a Mountain in California, wearing nothing but black sunglasses and a long white tunic. Pebbles became lodged in the back of my hiking boots, pressing into my skin, reminding me that some things would always remain tangible and difficult. Warm and sticky, the rock candy lit up into a bluish flame, the pipe glazing up, the smoke percolating out and life being simple and free, dissolved into endless hopelessness. We were young and we were hungry; fighting off wolves and tigers that were starving like us. The smell of fresh meat bloomed through the air like oxygen breaking up into atoms. Sadness permeated through the picturesque land, a storybook ending and a cinematic conclusion. She held the shotgun, pointed it at my chest, and pulled the trigger right as a deafening applause broke out from the grass tennis courts behind the open plain. This horrible and massive pain shot through my heart, causing me to fall back and hit the ground, hard, a lump in my arm emerging, my stomach turning in knots, as I felt my thundercloud softening into willow spring and silkworms. She moaned and screamed; I unable to grasp the intention in her words. Not like it was on purpose, but you get the gist of it.

[table-readings]

Routines

  Every morning I went to the coffee shop across the street from my house, because I didn’t work.   For every resume I typed out, I wrote a poem, in order to keep me from sending you a text marked with a white flag.   A skull was concealed in the flag, as a watermark. The sun made love to a cluster of clouds, while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair.   I opened my wallet and took out a photograph of me and you from the booth that one night when you made a fire out of caskets.   Your face had been glowing with warmth, as if you had drained all the light out of the sun, and had taken a shower in its yellow glow. Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future.   Then you grew your hair longer, and pulled it over your eyes, like twin pirate eye-patches. But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent.   Today I wrote another poem on a countertop, in the coffee shop, and bandaged the wounds you gave me when you told me you never cared about me.   One of the baristas wearing a brown apron and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems from James Tate. And as I read “The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling.   I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head, and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream, rich and thick in its texture, Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant.   You stuffed it in your golden purse, and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard chased after you. Then, you hopped into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off.   I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver, you dipped a bent spoon into the plastic container and scooped out the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily.   And after I took a bite, we went to the park and swung on the swings, coasting up and down in the air, vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts.   Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard in the bathroom because I was shy, shy of you finding out, because you love piano melodies.   And I guessed I wanted to play for myself for a change. I played “My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card.   After I played the song, I left the coffee shop ,went home, and painted our last conversation, using words from a newspaper.   “It’s over.” “You were never right for me.” “You’re not mature enough for a relationship.” “I never want to see your face at Peets.”   Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to, every morning, rain or shine, rested or exhausted, and I remember you would read my poems.   You read my poems as if they were Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night you texted me that my poems sounded like rushed and convoluted emails.   After that I blocked you on everything, from social media to your number. I hoped we would grow weak with joy, and grey with age.   Words, whether from your lips, or a text shattered the trust I gave you, as if it were my social security code.   In front of the bathroom mirror, I took a pink eraser and rubbed it against my foreheard, to remove the wrinkles.   Each wrinkle represented a time when you had failed me, or when I had failed you. Our failures were weights that I had balanced in my memory.   Kaufman would be pleased of my progress. I wrote a sculpture with glass and tears at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room.    And then I took the sculpture, and buried it in my backyard, right next to the grave of my old and weak self.   I smoked a cigarette using sad memories as rolling papers. As the paper burned slowly, I let the smoke fill my heart.   Because my lungs were tired, tired from breathing, tired from living for you. Because you are not the only thing that matters.

[table-readings]

Homevideo

After drinking a glass of bourbon, Calvin popped a videotape into his VCR and lounging back on his pull-out futon couch, he watched the large television screen crackle, then cleanse, and then brighten with a clear image of his dead wife Marcy playing Mozart's Symphony No. 40 on a baby grand piano. She was sitting straight and tall on a plush leather bench, spreading out her delicate hands in an effortless and graceful motion. Marcy smiled and fluttering her fingers, she pressed down the black and white keys with a deft, light touch; a powerful and full sound burgeoning from the instrument. Her cheeks were sunken like capsized buoys and her lips were pursed together tight. She wore a dark red dress and ballet shoes. Marcy played many chord progressions, swaying left to right, synchronizing her body to the rhythm. Her curly locks of brown hair tumbled down her bare shoulders, and her green eyes were trained intently on the sheet music, as though the notation possessed a hidden map that held clues leading to nirvana. She released her fingers from the keyboard and turning around, she said in a smoky voice, "Baby I'm getting pretty thirsty. Aren't you thirsty? Let's drink some water and I'll play more later, okay?"

Calvin reached over and lifted up the bottle of bourbon from the tabletop and poured more bourbon into his glass. He watched Marcy get up from the bench. Calvin’s arm shook as he drank the bourbon. Marcy stared right into the camera and winked. Calvin cleared his throat and heard a cheerful voice leak out the television speakers, and on cue he synced up his tone and inflection with the voice and said, "Honey you play like an angel, a beautiful angel. You’re so talented and you’re right water sounds great right now. I'll put some ice in your water, would you like that?" Marcy beaming a smile, nodded. She walked towards the camera and closed her palm over the lens.

The television screen blurred with gray pixels and white dots, and then faded into black. Calvin turned off the television with the remote, walked over to the VCR, and popped out the videotape. He stared at the tape and cried in silence, wishing that the video was longer than five minutes, so that he could hold on to a stronger memory of his wife. The tape was a worn plastic rectangle with black spools of footage that were frayed from repeated viewings; 462 times, equating to one year, three months, and five days.

Calvin remembered recording the tape on June 8th 2013, which was the same day that Marcy took her own life with a gun. He felt that the videotape preserved Marcy’s voice, her appearance, her piano playing, but what it didn’t do was reveal her motivation for killing herself. Calvin had searched through his entire apartment and he had not been able to find a suicide letter, which was frustrating and confusing. A letter could have provided him with answers. He wanted to know why she ended her life. Didn’t she care about him? Weren’t they happy together? How was she feeling at the time? These questions couldn’t be answered, but when Calvin watched the videotape, sometimes he felt like Marcy was speaking to him through her piano playing and giving him insight to her thought process. And sometimes he felt that she wasn’t speaking to him at all, and that if he kept watching the videotape, the reason behind Marcy’s suicide would haunt him for the rest of his existence. Calvin put the videotape back into the VCR, turned on the television again, and watched Marcy play the piano.

[table-readings]

A video made by some of my friends!

[table-readings]

Cathedral 

The white and powerful-looking Cathedral made out of large stony bricks and stained glass windows loomed over Washington D.C. As I rode my red bicycle through the Main Street, passing by I glanced at the cathedral and wondered what it would have been like to construct and build such a colossal building that was majestic and immaculate. The cathedral began to diminish in size and from my view as I rode away, though not before I saw a fine crack in one of the stained glass windows. The brooding sunlight glinted against the window and leaked through the crack, making me contemplate the small flaw in the great structure and what effect it could have on one’s faith, if any effect. A man stood outside, sweeping the dust with a thin broomstick. He stared at me with a vacant face. I wanted to wave, maybe even say hi, but I turned away in awkwardness. And rode away on my bike, the cathedral towering behind me.

I met up with my friend Sean at a coffee shop a few blocks away from my neighborhood and we sat outside on the patio and smoked cigarettes and drank iced coffee. Sean was exceptionally skinny with a rosy-white face and arrowhead-shaped hands.

He wore a white-oxford and greyish-blue jacket with matching pants that made him look like a businessman instead of a practicing Muslim. He was unemployed and figured he would read the book of Koran as a way to search for clarity and nirvana. He had dropped out of Cornell and stopped taking his Anxiety Medication, in hopes that he could find enlightenment through a liquor bottle.

Now he was clean and medicated, as far as I knew and only had the occasional cigarette to calm down his nerves. He had a long, but honest and gentle face, which made me care and trust him.

Although he was a standup guy, Sean had a habit of self-sabotage and was now starting to twitch and fidget around in his seat as he told me, “Look Jackie, I know I’ve been trying to live this holier than thou lifestyle, but it’s come to my attention that it ain’t working out so well. You don’t have to hear me out, but I’ve been thinking about trying to join this bible study group. The Langstowne townies. And considering the comfort and healing it could give me against the violence that’s abundant in this town, I think it would be prudent to join. And I think you should join with me.  

As I took a sip from my coffee I paused for a moment and shook my head and then I took a second longer sip. The Langstowne Townies were a group of reformed thugs who had formed a bible study group with a penchant for misconstruing anything and everything that was sacred and pure. Yes, they were all about enlightenment and higher learning, that much was known. Also they provided free coffee and glazed donuts before their meetings. Who didn’t like free shit?

I didn’t think it was a good idea for Sean or I to join a bible study group that was composed out of former gang bangers. They didn’t look or seem to be devout Christians who had good intentions and morals. Instead the group they ran seemed to be a nefarious cover-up operation that they used to delegate their wrongdoings and misdeeds.

While I smoke another cigarette and puffed gingerly, I found that I also really wanted to write a new newspaper article for the Washington Post. I was their ace reporter/staff writer and although I had only been on the paper for six months I was starting to make a name for myself. I had done a few investigative reporting gigs about the pure sleaziness of the Automobile business and their selling habits, the consequences of Americans selling cocaine to Mexican Cartels, and the Big Brother's effect on affluent housewives' lifestyles.

Sean grounded his cigarette out in the ashtray and rubbed his forearms, as if he had track marks along his skin like a meth head. “At least go to a meeting with me Jackie. See how it is. If you don’t like it we’ll leave. That’s a promise,” he said, drinking coffee from his cup.

“I don’t know Sean. It doesn’t seem like a good idea,” I said, as I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head.

“How is it a bad idea?” Sean asked, giving me a quizzical look.

I shrugged and taking in a deep breath, I said, “They’re not really a bible study. They’re a bunch of thugs.”

“Reformed thugs,” Sean said, trying to correct me.

I smiled at him and sighed. “Look man if you wanna go, I’m not going to stop you. But I don’t think you’re going to like the group,” I said.

“Jackie you don’t know that. If anything you’re being presumptuous,” Sean said, looking at his closed hands.

I leaned forward in my seat and put my elbows on the table. I said, “You really want to go to this meeting?”

“Yeah I do,” Sean said, puffing on his cigarette.

“Can you go alone? Or do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

“It’d be great if you could come with me,” Sean said, giving me a great smile.

I groaned and laughed.

“C’mon man. I’ll buy you a beer afterwards,” Sean said.

“Really? Don’t you already owe me like five brews,” I said with a chuckle.

Sean laughed and said, “Six now. What would you like Jackie?”

“Dos Equis I guess,” I said.

“Six Dos Equis it is,” Sean said, slapping me on the shoulder.

           Later that night, we walked over to a hole-in-the-wall bar called Blue Crows and ordered two Dos Equis. I grabbed the bottle of beer and sipped on it gingerly as Sean looked around for the bible study. I asked the bartender where the meeting was taking place. He said, “Downstairs.” So, we went downstairs to the basement, bringing our beers with us, as if they were going to protect us from injuries.

We got to the bottom of the stairwell and walked across the rocky floor. The room was cozy and dim-lighted and cluttered with random inanimate objects. There was a long, wooden table with animal carvings across the wood. There were candles lit brightly around the windowsill that burned with intensity and mischief. The air conditioner rattled like a snake attacking its prey. The corners of the room were filled with cobwebs and shadows that gave the place a decrepit and forlorn mood. Four extremely tall and broad-chested men sat in a fading leather booth and when we approached them, they lit their cigarettes and smiled at us. The tall and gangly man with a body shaped like a bowling pin turned to face us and shook Sean’s hand and then my hand. “Greetings to both of you boys. My name’s Tobias.” He puffed on his cigarette. “That’s Clooney, that’s Campbell, and that’s Johnathan. If you ever need anything, go to them and they’ll sort things out. Now what brings you here?”

Sean cleared his throat and pulled up a chair. Sitting down, he said, “Hi Tobias, my name’s Sean and this is Jackie. I’m interested in your bible study group. I’d like to join if possible and learn as much as I could about enlightenment and the lord.”

Tobias nodded and looked at me and said, “And what brings you here?”

“Oh, I just came along to make sure things go smoothly,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets.

Sean looked at me and then looked down at his hands.

Tobias considered my answer for a moment and said, “Interesting. It’s as if you’re afraid your friend would be in danger. Or that he would make a bad decision. Something like that?”

I shrugged and after a moment of consideration, I nodded.

Tobias cracked his fingers and inhaled a breath. He said, “Your friend is safe here. We’re a bible study group. All we want to do is preach the word of God. Nothing more. Sean is more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you,” Sean said, glaring at me.

“I’ve heard stories about your group,” I said.

“Good stories? Or Bad stories?” Tobias asked me.

“Not the kind of stories you want people to hear,” I said, sitting forward in my chair. I didn’t trust Tobias, not for a second. He had this wretched-looking face, as if he had seen way too much bullshit and now wanted repentance.

Tobias blew smoke up towards the ceiling and said, “Well whatever story you’ve heard I’m sure there’s some degree to truth to them. Not saying they’re valid, but what I am saying is that these stories shouldn’t prevent you both from joining the group.”

“I never said anything about joining your group,” I said, with a faint chuckle.

“And why’s that?” Tobias asked, as he grinned widely.

“Just because you’re a bunch of ex-cons who have been reformed doesn’t make you qualified to preach the word of God, much less anything from the bible,” I said, lighting my own cigarette.

Tobias clasped his hands together and said, “The good book is meant to be read, and meant to be told. I don’t think the lord has a problem with who tell his stories. But I see that you have a problem with it.”

“That I do,” I said.

“Jackie, ease up a little man. You’re blowing shit out of proportion,” Sean said, looking flushed in the face.

“It’s okay Sean. Jackie seems to have apprehensions. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with that at all. Tell me Jackie, are you a Christian?” Tobias asked me.

I wasn’t a Christian. “What does that matter?” I asked with a laugh.

“The reason why I’m asking, is that if you a truly a Christian, you shouldn’t have any trouble with letting Sean join our group. We pray for each other and read the bible. That’s all we do. Nothing nefarious, nothing evil. You can trust me Jackie, you really can,” Tobias said squeezing my shoulder.

I smiled and said, “Do you think that’s going to work on me?”

Tobias grinned again and shook his head. “No, no I don’t,” he said.

Sean sighed and said, “Don’t mind Jackie. He doesn’t have his head on straight.”

“Really? Sean you don’t really think that, do you?” I asked him.

“I really do,” Sean said, looking over his shoulder and then back at his hands.

Tobias said, “So Sean you still want to join the bible study, right?”

Sean nodded.

“Okay then it’s settled. Meet me outside the Cathedral in an hour,” Tobias said, getting up from the fading red booth. His followers stood up as well and said good-bye to us and shook our hands, before they all walked away up the stairwell. Tobias turned around and said, “Oh and Sean?”

Sean turned around and said, “Yes Tobias?”

“Don’t be late,” Tobias said, turning around and walking up the stairwell.

Sean and I stayed back and sat in the fading red booth and drank our beers. Sean looked visibly upset and nervous. I didn’t know what to say to him. Was he really going to go to the cathedral? Tobias had been vague about the initiation process and I was planning on the worst. I wasn’t sure if I should accompany Sean to the Cathedral. After all, what were we going to do there? Just sit in a circle and pray? Tobias was correct; I did have apprehensions. And I believed I was justified for having them.

“Jackie, I’m going to head out after this beer and go to the cathedral,” Sean said, guzzling down his beer.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t trust Tobias,” I said, folding my arms over my chest.

Sean shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter what you say at this point. I’m going to do it.”

I sighed in exasperation and said, “Is there anything I can to change your mind? I mean do you really go through with it?”

“I really am,” Sean said.

“Let’s think this through. I don’t want you go to there and get hurt. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you,” I said.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me Jackie. Look I got to get going,” Sean said, as he stood to get up from the booth.

I stood up from the booth and grabbed Sean by the arm. “Don’t do this Sean. Be smart,” I said.

“I am being smart,” Sean said, pulling his arm away from me.

“Can you be reasonable for once in your life,” I said.

“I’m being more than reasonable. You’re the one who’s being unreasonable,” Sean said slamming his beer down on the table.

“Don’t go,” I said, following him.

“I’m going,” Sean said, as he walked up the stairs.

“Wait,” I said.

Sean stopped walking and turned around.

“All right. I’m coming with you,” I said.

Sean smiled broadly.

And we walked up the stairwell and left Blue Crows.

The great, white cathedral stood on slanted ground—dead bugs and broken twigs were spread around the weathered grass—and a line of trees bordered the majestic-looking building, as if they were sentries waiting for an intruder to enter the premises. The full moon was shining down on the stone path that lead up to the front entrance. The stained glass window still contained a fine crack in its beautiful surface. We walked up the stone path and carried our leather bound bibles with us. We both wore expensive three-pieced suits as a way to leave an impression on the bible study group—Sean’s was grey and mine was blue. As we approached the cathedral, the moon grew dim with light and soon darkness shrouded the ground. A flame emerged from the blackness. Tobias was lighting up his cigarette, which I considered to be highly inappropriate given that we were on holy ground. He reached over and shook Sean’s hand and then my own. I clutched onto my bible and wondered what we had come here to do. Sean looked like he was struggling to keep his composure and for once I felt sorry for the guy and I really wanted him to do well for his own sake.

“Sean I’m so glad that you decided to come. And look you’ve brought Jackie along with you. This is great, I’m so happy,” Tobias said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

I nodded and said, “Why’d you ask us to come here?”

Tobias smiled and said, “That’s a very good question. I’ve asked you to come here, because the church has stolen something that’s very important to me. And I want you both to help me get it back. Is that something you both can help me with?”

What was Tobias getting after? I wanted to know how he had the nerve to ask us to bring him something from the church. What did he want us to do? This whole situation seemed rather sketchy and I was ready to leave.

Then, Sean said, “Okay what do you want us to do Tobias?”

I stared at Sean and bit down on my bottom lip.

Tobias nodded and walked around the weathered ground. “It’s simple really. The church took a golden chalice from me. I used to be a priest in the congregation but I was kicked out because they didn’t agree with my teachings. And as a punishment they stole my golden chalice. I need it because it had belonged to my father and my father’s father, and so forth. It’s important to me and I will make sure that you are both compensated for helping me. What do you say Jackie? Are you in,” he asked me.

“No I’m not in. This whole thing sounds ridiculous. How do I even know the Golden Chalice belongs to you?” I asked him.

“Because my name is engraved on the bottom of the chalice,” Tobias said, as he narrowed his eyes at me.

“Why should I help you? I don’t believe you, not even for a second,” I said, shaking my head.

Tobias smirked and said, “God gave you free will, so you can do what you please. However if you do this task for me, not only will you get exclusive membership into the group. But you’ll also get compensated with money. How’s that sound Jackie?”

I laughed and said, “You can’t buy me Tobias. That won’t work on me. Let’s get out of here Sean.”

“Wait a second Jackie. I could use the money. I’m behind on rent and I need to pay off my bills,” Sean said.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, with a monotone voice.

“Dead serious,” Sean said.

“You’re on my own man. I can’t help you steal some fucking chalice from the church,” I said.

“We’ll be in and out Jackie. It won’t take up your time. I promise you,” Sean said.

I sighed and shoved my hands in my pockets. “I don’t do Sean. I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said.

“Just trust me. And besides the money, this will be a good story for the Post,” Sean said, patting me on the back.

“You’re a writer?” Tobias asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Yeah I am. And I’m sure you don’t want your name or your organization’s name in the paper,” I said.

“I never said that. In fact this could be good from a public relations perspective,” Tobias said.

“You got to be joking me,” I said, frowning.

“I never joke around,” Tobias said, putting his hands behind his back.

I looked back at Sean. “Yeah it could be a damn good story, but something still doesn’t feel right about this man,” I said.

“Like I said Jackie. We’ll be in and out. Won’t take no time at all,” Sean said.

“You sure about this?” I asked him.

“I’m completely sure,” Sean said.

“It’s not worth the money,” I said.

Sean nodded and said, “But it’s worth the story. You haven’t written anything in month’s man.”

“Writer’s block?” Tobias asked me.

“Yeah writer’s block,” I said, feeling pissed off.

“Well doing this should help then,” Tobias said.

“Yeah, you could be right,” I said.

Sean walked up to the door, turned around, and said, “You coming?”

I didn’t know if I should help out Sean or not. This wasn’t some crazy adventure, this was real life. And any mistake could destroy us.

I approached the wooden doors and pushed them open.

The doors opened up.

Sean and I walked inside.                    

“Good luck boys,” Tobias said.

The doors closed.

I turned around and walked down the marble aisle.

The brown wooden benches were torn up and warped. The seats were peeling with faded paint. Up high, in the steel rafters, black bats loomed and perched on the beams.

I approached the altar covered with a white tablecloth. A golden chalice stood on the tabletop shining with brilliance. Sean gestured over to me and said, “Pick it up.”

So, I picked up the golden chalice and held it in my hands.

It was shiny and heavy with weight. It had an intricate design layered throughout the gold. And the inside was empty, except for a brown stain on the bottom. I turned the chalice over in my hand and looked. There it was, Tobias’s name engraved in the gold.

A loud noise erupted from the back of the tarnished pews.

I spun around and looked. I slipped the golden chalice into my pants pocket.

The loud noise erupted again, this time with more volume.

Sean clenched his fists.

The loud noise erupted a third time.

This time, a gaunt olive-skinned man stepped out of the shadows and walked down the aisle. The man was dressed in a heavy white gown with a set of huge white wings attached to his back. In his hand, he held a long, brown staff. He approached us and pointed the staff at my face. “The chalice. Give it back now and no one gets hurt,” he said. The man stepped up closer to me and gritted his teeth.

I looked down at my hand. The golden chalice gleamed with ferocity.

I looked back at Sean.

He looked incredibly nervous.

I took in a deep breath and said, “Sean, run.”

Sean took off in a sprint and dashed around the wooden benches.

The man lifted up his staff, turned around, and launched his staff right at Sean’s back. The staff smacked into Sean. He fell forward and hit his face on the floor and ate dirt.

           The man glanced back at me.

           I charged at the man with full force and tackled him to the ground.

           He lost his balance and stumbled backwards. The staff fell to the wayside.

           The man grabbed my head and punched me in the face with his free hand.

           I felt my head knock backwards and I landed flat on my back.

           The man stood up and picking up the staff, he spun it around over his head, and brought it crashing down towards my face.

           I rolled over to my side. The staff stabbed into the ground.

           I swept my leg over and kicked him in the stomach.

           The man grunted and held his stomach.

           I took the gold chalice and with my weight behind me, I smacked him in the face.

           He staggered back.

           I picked up the staff and pummeled him in the chest.

           The man staggered back again and tripped over his feet. White feathers flew up into the air.

           I circled around the wooden benches, and picked up Sean by the arms and pulled him up to his feet. Sean looked exhausted and when I began to walk with him, he hung his head down.

           The man got up and started walking towards us. He picked up his staff.

           I pushed through the wooden doors and opened them.

           Tobias was waiting outside and smoking a cigarette.

           The man lunged and chucked his staff forward.

           Tobias looked up.

           The staff caught him right in the face.

           Tobias was sent backwards and hit the frown lawn.

           I tossed him the golden chalice and ran away with Sean.

           The man lifted up his huge, white wings and picking up the chalice, he jumped up into the air. And he began to fly up, up away into the freezing air. He soared over the clouds, he soared over the moon and out of the sky.

           And in that moment I felt a great pain in my heart emerge and grow inside of me.

           The dark sky was still and quiet and the only thing that could be heard was the fluttering of the huge, white wings.

           The great, white cathedral loomed high and near. The fine crack in the stained glass window was repaired and nowhere to be seen, as if it were never there. Over the course of my long life I had never seen a building that was so powerful and so pure as that white cathedral.

[table-readings]

Dear Taylor Swift

First off my name’s Johnny Fangulo and I’m a huge fan of yours. Second of all, I hear that you have “bad blood,” and while that may be

undesirable to you and Kendrick Lamar, as a vampire, blood—whether good or bad—is incredibly appealing to me. I also hear that you have a very deep cut. Did you happen to run into Edward Cullen? He’s such a douche.

He wrote this fucking diary that made more than a million dollars and had this human Stephanie Meyer pose as the author; it’s insane if you ask me. But seriously he’s the type of vampire to jump a poor, unsuspecting human such as yourself and give you a deep cut.

I would only give you a little cut. I also have a small mouth, but that doesn’t mean my fangs are small…bad joke. Sorry I’m kind of awkward and weird. I know your “bad blood” “used to be mad love” and while no scientist, I’m sure I can give you some love. No, not in like a sexual way.

I mean you’re very beautiful. But my girlfriend Elena Gilbert would kill me, if I even looked at you, let alone write this letter to you. I know that you have “problems” and that you “don’t think” you can “solve them,” but I have a brilliant solution. If you’re interested, we can talk more over email. Just send me a message via [email protected], and hopefully we can meet up in person at an organic smoothie shop, or any intersection in Northern Virginia where there’s roadkill.

That was another bad joke.

Sorry, I can’t decide whether I want to be a standup comedian, or the leader of all the vampires in the United States after my Great Uncle Dracula retires to Seattle. And you’re absolutely correct, “band-aids don’t fix bullet holes,” but being a vampire, I can at least stop the bleeding from your “deep cut.”

I know it sounds like I just want to meet you for your “bad blood,” and that may be partially true, but I also would love to talk to you face to face and learn more about who you are, and what you enjoy for interests. Don’t worry I will not turn you into a vampire. I promise and I swear to the lord of the Underworld that I won’t do that.

Also, I will say that—and this may just be me, being overly-sensitive—but I think you should take out the “live with ghosts” line out of your song lyrics, because I actually do live with ghosts like my roommates Paulie Casper and Reginald Boo. And they’re huge fans of yours too, and to be honest—and they wouldn’t openly admit this--but they were pretty hurt when they heard that line, because it came off as derogatory and mean.

But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, because you’re fucking Taylor Swift, and you’re awesome. Fuck Kanye. Now, you also say that “if you love like that, blood runs cold.” Taylor, don’t “love like that,” because if you do the blood will turn really icky and lukewarm, which I don’t like.

But hey…this isn’t about me, I actually prefer “bad blood,” it’s like black coffee, which is supposed to be healthy for you. Like I’ve been trying to drink more caribou blood, because it’s supposed to be organic, but nothing beats…well you know...you. So any who, that’s all I have to say for now. Definitely give me an email if you want to talk more, hope to hear from you soon!

Best regards,

Johnny Fangulo

P.S.

#newsquadgoal

#donatebloodtojohnny

#anautographi­scooltoo

[table-readings]

Trailer

You made me wait for 45 minutes at a Banh Mi shop as the afternoon sun morphed into a ceiling of darkness. I read a story on Buzzfeed about break ups and relationship rocky as the road my car sat on. The gas station was lit up like a theme park, but no one arrived, and soon I believed you'd been taken, or you'd forgotten about me. The cicadas started chirping and the humidity in the air cooled down, and when I was about to turn over the engine, your black Honda scuttled into the parking space covered in puddles. As though, you knew you could survive on any terrain, whether rough, or wet, smooth, or dry. We talked briefly, small chit-chat, nothing worth mentioning. I had already devoured a double-cheese burger and some fries, but I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to ruin your appetite. You touched my bicep, told me to flex. I did as I was told, like an old dog, wanting to please its master. My muscle hurt after your fingers drew away, as though my skin showed a wound, something ugly and worn. I tried to smile, but inside I was drowning in false facial expressions, and shortcut body language. We went inside, shuffling to the L-shape line, you picking up Mochi Ice-cream from the freezer, and me just happy to be in your presence. You said, you missed me and I knew you mean it too. I said, you don't know how good it is to see you. You nodded and put your head on the nape of my shoulder. Closing your eyes momentarily, I touched your hip and held on for dear life. Because all around us, war battered young and old in countries stricken by fear and poverty. Gifs and Memes provided us with distractions, as you showed me the trailer to a new rom-com. They're just like us, you said.

You're right, I said. I gave you back the phone, before the trailer ended.

[table-readings]

Opague Shades of RVA

You could have reached here Wednesday by last choice Perhaps your mood shifted. All the calm nights you had now lay awake. You explore the city built by the perfect people, white cathedral stands upright on a slant, a compass buried in plain sight, the gibberish of art students from painting lullabies as sirens. Only children are asleep. The university grows younger each year. The best teacher is always late, not realizing her impact.

The person I’m most comfortable with stays in bed. Security found indoors the couch allures, security in the capsule, The deafening whispers, the genuine friends who live nearby and can’t talk straight. The blessed temple building worshiped by advertising majors.

The lucid potential, morning sprints round the track, a library sustained by crushed Adderall — glowering orbs rotating back counter clockwise, out of chimneys the black spirits climb, detectives bicycling, the honor students rummaging for class notes in the deep end of the dumpster.

So this is college? That frontier plateauing before you can dive off a cloud? So this utopia was a dollhouse, the daily on the doormat camps in the hallway: waits while the child watches a sit-com?

Don’t apartments stand still? Are abstract paintings and basketball supposed to nurture a city, not only Richmond, but also other lonely cities of misunderstood brunettes, dank weed and dubstep the weekend will seldom put out until the city you moved to shuts its eye?

Just tell yourself, “live.” The best teacher, eighteen when she moved to the university, still grins even as she coughs out fiberglass. Any day now, she sings, I’ll take a drive and leave this place. I pull her close and say. You haven’t slept in your own bed. The boy who you’ve always loved still thinks about you. The books you read before breakfast, whoever the author may be, inspires and your least favorite student who raises her hand is judged but her posture never falters.

[table-readings]

Moses

I met Lauren at a time of life when the Kardashian betches were taking over and by this time Morgan was trying to take over with his rap career. Attempting to become someone he didn't even fully make sense with and this was true.

[table-readings]

Young Professional

As a young adult, I hate ironing my shirts. But I think I hate working at a laundromat even more. On my shift I never meet women that are 10's but I get a lot of dimes. This shirt was made in China, so I can kind of understand why people ask me where I'm from.  I just tell people I'm from Dragon Ball Z. I was the guy with black hair. It's an animated show, they say. I say back yeah I know I was the voice actor. 

[table-readings]

Drake is the reason my kid's in college.

scholar boy Q