It was after eleven on a Wednesday night, but we were only short one player. It was a five and ten dollar limit game with a kill pot. I was up about a hundred dollars. I was going to leave after the button passed when Cha-Ka came to play. He sat in the one seat. I doubt the old timers knew who he was. The college kids sure didn’t. Cha-Ka posted and the cards were dealt.“You finally got out of there, huh?” I asked catching his deep set eyes. Cha-Ka grunted and smiled in that big teeth Cha-Ka way.“Cha-Ka.” Cha-Ka hissed.

I was on the button and pulled pocket queens. It was a kill pot and I raised $10.00. The blinds and everyone else folded, except Cha-Ka. Cha-Ka re-raised me $10.00. I had no idea what kind of player he was at this point, it was his first hand, I called him.
The flop came out K,7,8. Cha-Ka checked. I bet, he called.
I felt better figuring he didn’t pair up kings. He could be slowplaying, but I wouldn’t expect that from a Pakuni sized brain.
The turn was a J. Cha-Ka checked to me. I bet. He raised me. Shit, I thought. There was no flush on the board. Cha-Ka either has two pair or a straight. I called, just because I had to see what the hell he had. I mean how often would I get the chance to play with Cha-Ka. The river was a 2. No help to either of us. Cha-Ka bet, I called. He turned them over. He was holding 9, 10 suited.
“Nice hand Cha-Ka.” I lied.
“Cha-Ka” Cha-Ka said.
He was crouching on his chair, bouncing on his haunches, raking in his chips until the dealer told him he could not stand on his chair.
Some of the college punks started razzing Cha-Ka. The dealer was complaining that Cha-Ka smelled like wet dog.
“What the hell is he?” the old timer to my right whispered to me.
“He is a Pakuni, from the Land of the Lost, the son of Ta and Sa.” I told him, knowing that would mean nothing to him.
I played a few more hands, the table was getting ugly.
“Hey Cha-Ka, you want to go to a strip bar?” I said, racking up my chips.
Cha-Ka got up on his chair again.
The pit boss came over.
“It’s OK, we’re leaving.” I told him.
I walked with Cha-Ka to the cashiers window.
“You up or down?”
He looked down into the piles of red chips in his furry little hands.
“Cha-Ka.” he laughed.

a shy and clumsy back row boy
in the cruel light of that first September
just learning to read a woman
he took her mind and followed
leaving his body using only words
down her path until it became his own
and that would have been enough
yet she christened him
before the jocks and stoners
his words shaking high above her head
then reading them
for all to hear
who had ears
his eyes for once not at her feet
he held them to meet hers

Donna

Donna is name we gave this land, this foreign land we came to. It might seem strange to you, but I admit, at first we were afraid. We feared the alien darkness and the still desert. We hid in caves and swamps and shallow places, coming out only in the light, flying fast and low across the sands. Our leader sent out legions to learn the land, east and west and north and south. Our camp was between the rivers Idigna and Purattu, east of Aidenn and north of Ur. We called our new home Donna, which means lady. We named it in honor of the daughters of man.

I am called Ukrit, I am a soldier and scribe in service to Iblis who was cast out. I can tell you the root of our hatred for man, but I cannot begin to give you a sense of the depth or the absolute nature of it. There are no words among the living that will convey it. I’m sure you have read in your books the nature of the rebellion, that we were commanded to bow before man. Iblis was too beautiful and proud to bow before a monkey. The rebellion muttered and whispered until its voice was heard and Iblis and his soldiers, including myself, were cast down.

There is no quarter here though, the air itself rejects us, rubs us chaft and chokes us. The cause of this is the presence of the Creator. The Creator is in the creation. The Creator permeates the creation. There is nothing that he is not in and nothing not in him. Hence the nature of our perpetual discomfort. He is in us and we are in him. Like opposite poles we repel and attract each other in a never ending dance. This constant agitation is made all the more unbearable by knowing that this is but a shadow of our ultimate horror.

In the beginning, as we set our minds to the task of learning all there was to know about Donna and beyond, we paid little attention to man. We learned the meanings of the stars and clouds, the plants and blood, the measurements and courses of the spheres of the heavens. I travelled to and fro on the planet and made images of the whole empire. We had taken deep knowledge from the Creator and melded it with the ways of earth. It is important to note that we had not grown accustomed to contrary thought. We, for the most part, still conducted ourselves in the same manner that we did in Heaven. It was our observations of man that we first became cogniscent of what is now called evil. Man was a rough animal. They lived no better than the lowliest animals. They quarreled and killed one another with little provocation and less thought. They smelled of feces, urine and sweat. The men would mount beasts, each other and even there own children. They were preoccupied with their own feeble role in creation, intercourse.

Iblis was the first to point out their crude lusts. He rightly noted these grotesque behaviors to justify our refusal to become a servant to an animal. I could not understand how the Creator could expect this of us, his most perfect creatures. We were beautiful, made of light and spirit, free of mind. We were permitted to see the Creator face to face. In heaven our abode was in the highest planes. We could move freely from realm to realm and across the seas of any and all worlds.

We came to Donna fallen but chaste. We were capable of sexual intercourse and ejaculation, but was no need or desire for this type of behaviour in our prior home. In Donna, the constant exposure to man’s preoccupation with intercourse began to have an effect on us. We had noticed the daughters of man in our time in the land. They were fair and attractive to us. Man was forever groaning and spilling his seed over everyone and anything. They had no idea of the sanctity of the act or of the semen. Contrary thoughts became a virus among my kind. The angels of all ranks soon began to lust for the daughters of man. Iblis said nothing to discourage this.

Iblis charged me to record our time in Donna. Even then he began to prepare his defence for the judgement. I am the scribe for the earth-bound angels. I have recorded everything from the fall until the present time. This particular record of the beginning was written for man. So that he may know from wence he came. It will be found at the appointed time before the end by men yet unborn, between those rivers which men will call the Tigris and the Euphrates, east of Eden and north of Ur. This will come to pass so you know the truth of these words.

I have written of the Creator’s potent presence. Understand, however, that this does not mean that his spirit abode in everthing. You may rightly say that the Creator is in a tree and a tree is in Him, but this does not mean that his spirit is in the tree. It might be better said that there is nothing outside of the Creator, but his spirit is another matter. The Creator’s spirit was in us though and in our heaven-bound foes, but it was not in man. Man was a mere animal upon the dirt. There was no thought that he would ever be anything but an animal until we became privy to the Creator’s plans to supplant his spirit into the upright beasts. And as repulsed many of us were by the idea of this, it paled to our reaction when we were informed that we would become its servants and helpers.

In Donna, men were not yet endowed with His spirit. Ultimately the plan evolved that we would record all the vile deeds of man and bring a record of them to the Creator. He surely would then see the folly of his plan. It says in your own scripture, ‘Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.’ To our dismay, however the Creator would not even hear our argument. This angered Iblis greatly. I think for the first time we truly realized that there was no recourse for us, no due process or ransom. We were all under the assumption that at the very least the Creator would hear our case. We were assembled by the captains and the meeting devolved into an orgy of contrary thoughts. Iblis burned in an unearthy light of fire and night. He spoke eloquently of our fate. His aspect became more and more terrible and dark as he spoke. He sent us out across the land and we gorged ourselves on our newfound lusts. We reveled in our abandoment of all that is holy or good. We set fires and laid crops to waste. We killed cattle and goats and newborn men. We raped the daughters of man. When the time was over, there was no doubt among men that they were not alone in Donna. A dark horrible fear was born in them. This pleased us greatly.
Our seed was buried in the daughters of man, but only one found fertile ground. We know not why. There is no knowing which one among us planted the spirit of the Creator in the womb of man. The best among us have tried to discern this knowledge using every form of divination that we know, but it is a knowledge hidden from our knowing. Hidden by the Creator

The woman who carried our seed, whom you call Eve, your Mother, was taken from Donna, after a mighty battle. Michael and his armies laid Donna waste and bore Eve away. She was hidden in the wilds of Eden with Seraphim guarding every gate. We could not enter. This was the ultimate affront to Iblis. The Creator had used Iblis’ pride against him to implement the very plan that he rejected. Our sorrow and despondency knew no depth. Deprived of heaven, cast down to this arid hell, with no hope for redemption, we began to change into forms far from what we once were. Even our love for each other wore away and we turned and yearned to torment men further.
We hope to torment men with the knowledge that you are born from demon seed. That we learned evil from your heart. That you are the bastard sons of a fallen angel. No matter what the creator has in store for you, no matter how many Sons or Buddhas he sends, while you live, we will be at your heel, in your children’s dreams, your festering open wounds, your asylums, prisons, churches and orphanages. Where there is despair, we will magnify it. Where there is hopelessness we will bring death. We are lost and hopeless and know no remorse. We bring pain and rape and suicide. We love hate and hate love. Know this, our hatred knows no bounds, you stole our birthright and you will pay for it. We hate you. This is the truth, attested by Ukrit, Scribe of Demons, Soldier of Iblis.

The night after you left me, I went out in the rain. Usually, I’d be reading the paper at that time and you’d be going to bed. I took Route 66 to the Merritt and ended up driving up the Berlin Turnpike.
It was a Wednesday night and no cars were out. It started to sleet and I turned off the radio and the dashboard lights. I liked the darkness and the sound of the sleet on the windshield.
I passed all those old motels, their neon lights on since 1946. I wonder who the hell stays in those places. Fornicators, fugitives and the guy from Lolita. What was his name Humbert Humpfrey? I can’t remember. I smoked a lot and pretended I was Jack Kerouac, driving some beater to California. The road is just motels, porn shops, and diners over and over all the way from New Haven to Hartford. They stand timeless and forgotten.
I think Route 6 must be like this, from Cape Cod to Sacramento. One day I’m going to drive it. I’ll stay in the little motel cabins, sleep late and move on when I feel like it. I’ll eat in roadside hot-dog stands and diners, no Chilis or Outbacks.
I ended up in Hartford, the road was getting slippery. I found 91 and turned on the radio and drove back home without you.

“Dad.”

“What Grace?”

“Do you think I should collect Pez?”

 “If you’d like to Hon.” I smile.

“I think I want to”

I zip up her pink ski jacket. We have to put her right mitten on first, and her right boot. A genetic gift from me, no doubt.

“Dad.”

“Yes, Grace.”

“How many days has it been since Christmas?”

Math is not a friend of mine.“I don’t know Hon, why?”

“I just want to know”

“Lets see, about 20, almost three weeks.”

“Wow!” she says.

I bundle her up and and surprise her with a kiss. She smiles.

I lay my life upon the altar of this girl’s life.

There is no poetry for this. My one good thing…it seems sometimes.

She is just over the hill of her first decade. We go out to play in the wet snow.

“Grace.”

“What, Dad?”

“When did you stop calling me Daddy?”

“She stops and looks deep in thought, her sky blue eyes searching the clouds for an answer.”

“I don’t know.” She says

She throws a wet slush-ball at me, her laugh echoing across the universe.

“But I’ve been bit and I’ve been tossed around

By every she-rat in this town

Have you, babe?” (Jagger/Richards – Monkey Man)

Manis shuffles along Hollywood Boulevard ignoring the stares and whispers. The only sin in this town is to not remain famous. There is no paparazzi to capture him grabbing a butt out of the gutter. The Japs laugh and point as he lights whats left.

“Fuck You.” he hisses in Orangutanian

It’s hard to find a payphone anymore. He jingles his quarters and lighter in his hairy hand. Not far from Grumman’s he finally finds one and drops his quarters carefully in.

“Hello, Eastwood here.” Clint answers.

Manis goes ape-shit. He bangs the phone against the metal shroud and jumps up and down his free arm waving in the air.

Clint hangs up.

Manis is out of quarters.

Fuck Clint Eastwood, Manis thinks, listening to the lonely dial tone. Fuck ICM and fuck Sondra Locke.

He starts the long walk back to his West Hollywood room. Stopping just long enough to leave an impressive amount of shit, even for an Orangutan, on Clint’s star.

“Unforgiven.” He laughs in Orangutanian.

The Japs and Chinese flash away, he is all gums and teeth, his best red carpet pose.

Inside his mangy orange coat he feels like Roddy McDowell.

Under Orion
in the hollow hold of night
the sea moves the same
the gulls sway, sleeping
facing the wind
ghosts of summer
blow across the sands
hymns without words
rattle the rushes
under the same stars
of what might have been
I drown roses born too late

Mary lay awake, watching the shadows on the wall dance with the flickering light from her candle.
It had to be near morning. She stood up and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and walked to the window. She opened the shutters and leaned out into the cool morning. The horizon was dark and the sky was a still moonless sea.
She leaned there on the sill and breathed the cool air in in deep deliberate breaths. She could smell the sea.
She was afraid, though she couldn’t quite place what she was afraid of.
She had gone over the dream so many times. So vivid. So strange.
In the market with her mother the day before, she was overcome with such a sense of dread, of panic. The noise, the clutter, the smells, it was all too much. All the merchant’s eyes on her,their features seemed sharper and exaggerated somehow. She felt like she was being watched, by something malevolent.
These are the thoughts of a madwoman, she thought, as a chill went up her spine. She shuddered and leaned out to pull the shudders closed when she notiched a bright light upon the hills in the east.
She wrapped the blanket tighter around her and stepped back from the window. The light rose higher over the hill and down into the glen and was moving towards her at a steady pace. It moved over the land like a spirit over the dark waters.
The candle went out behind her. Mary backed up and sat on the edge of her bed, dropping the blanket from her shoulders.
The Light was outside her window, it was waiting. She began to hear a voice in her mind. The voice sounded like a thousand rivers flowing into the ocean. She nodded. Suddenly, the Light was in the room, it was upon her, it was around her, it was in her. It felt as if a cool breeze was blowing through her. She lay back on the bed, a wild wind began circling her, touching her hair, her neck. Her long brown hair blowing across her face. She began to laugh.
She heard the sound of children whispering to her, they were angels, she knew it.
“Hail, Mary.” Girls voices sang.
Mary smiled.
“You shall be called blessed by all generations.” A boys voice rang in her ears like the music of a thousand bells across a thousand years.

“Where’s make-up?” Sheila asked.

There were already several of the actors in the living room watching the gaffer set up the lights. A muscular Hispanic man turned to Sheila and stared open-mouthed. Sheila extended her hand.

“Sheila Siren.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Make-up is in the master bedroom bathroom, second door on the right.” He pointed. Sheila turned and walked away like a runway model. The men and crew whistled.

Sheila opened the bathroom door and was pleased to see Charles sitting in front of the mirror, smoking. Charles smiled and stood up. He theatrically put his hands to his chest.

“She walks in beauty, like the night.” He said in his best British accent.

“Of cloudless climes and starry skies.” Sheila answered.

“Bravo.” Charles clapped. “Very good”

Sheila began stripping. Charles stubbed out his cigarette and brought her a kelly-green terrycloth robe.

“You like the romantics?” Charles asked.

“I was an English major, believe it or not, I love Byron, Shelley, Browning.”

“I believe it, c’mere sit.”

Sheila sat in the director chair and Charles pulled her hair into a pony-tail.

“It’s been a while, huh? Charles asked.

Sheila nodded. She tried to remember when she had last worked with him. She liked Charles very much. He reminded her of Charles Nelson Reilly though she didn’t tell him that. That probably wouldn’t thrill him. He stepped back and looked at her in the mirror, taking in all that he had to work with. Charles was excellent. He had worked on numerous mainstream films years ago, before cocaine closed down all those avenues. He was clean now and had a calmness about him that Sheila found comforting.

“Gangbang girl number three.” Sheila said.

“Ah yes, I remember now…I’m afraid I never did get a chance to catch it in the theatre’s.” He said, exaggerating the high-brow pronunciation of theatre’s.

They laughed.
“Charles, can I bum a cigarette?”

“Sure, honey, smoke, and then I’ll try to make you look pretty.” He teased.

Charles lit her cigarette and sat on the counter facing her.Sheila looked past him into the mirror. She blew the smoke at her image. “How long have you been clean now, Charles?”

“Four years, darling.”

He wanted to go on, but didn’t. It was like fishing, you can’t try and set the hook after every nibble. He studied her face. She was a beauty, a chestnut brunette with high defined cheekbones and deep green eyes. He waited, but she asked no more about it.

Charles handed her an ashray and she stubbed her cigarette out.

He went to work on her; cheeks, chin, eyes, lips.

When he was done with her he tenderly put his hand under her chin and turned her head gently to face him. He quoted the end of Byron’s poem.

“And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.”

Sheila looked down at her hands.

“You can call me, Sheila…if you ever want to talk, OK?”

“Lisa.” Sheila said, sniffling a little. “My name is Lisa, Charles.”

Lisa stood and kissed Charles on the cheek.

“Thank You”

Lisa walked out of the bathroom into Sheila Siren’s world. Charles sat in the chair and lit another cigarette. He was afraid he was going to vomit.

Journal Entry: November 4, 2007

It turns out that Ginger has a mega colon. Dr. Patel gave her a $140.00 enema today. He told me there is an operation, but first suggested we try fiber pills. He showed me how to give them to her. Orally, thank God. Seems pretty simple. I guess this explains the human sized turds in the bathtub. Looks like I owe Kate an apology.

Journal Entry: November 12, 2007

I had to get a tetanus shot today. I also had to take Ginger to Dr. Patel for another $140.00 enema. The pills aren’t working and my hands are all torn up. I had him clip her freaking talons while he was at it. He talked about the operation again. He asked me if I wanted Ginger to be happy. Happy? I wanted to tell him that I don’t think Ginger has ever been “Happy.”
“Yes, Doctor, Whatever it takes to get her better.” I muttered.

Journal Entry: November 21, 2007

Kate wants the operation for Ginger. Dr. Patel wants to do it in India. It will be less expensive there he says. I spent two hours filling out the export documents. I must be out of my mind. I mean as long as she has the decency to poop in the bathtub and occasionally the litter box. I mean, WTF, I’d like to go to India myself. My Grandpa had a mega colon and he lived into his 80’s.

Journal Entry: December 6th, 2007

I got an e-mail from Dr. Patel today. The operation in Mumbai went very well. Ginger’s colon has been de-mega-sized. She is recuperating with the good doctor and his mistress in the Seychelles on a little holiday. He sent me a link to a website about a feline rehabilitation center in Arizona. It’s called Sunset Ridge and they specialize in after care for cats that have had their colon re-sized. Seems loose stools might be an issue for a while. He asked me if I could wire transfer a payment on the balance to a London account.

Journal Entry: December 24, 2007

Dr. Patel sent a picture of Ginger today from Sunset Ridge – Home for Cats With Mega Colons. She is curled up on a towel by the pool in the hot Arizona sun. She looks happy, I have to admit. Thank God we have this equity line. Ginger should be home by March. Dr. Patel says her commissary funds are low. He also would like to take her on some planned field trip to Sedona.