Fore/fit/chore

Rover was a duck whose goal was left unfilled before his untimely death.

Goal = reach the mountain peak.

Death = snapped neck via boulder.

Rover waddled for fun + purpose.

Rover’s plumage was not particularly impressive. Rover moulted excessively during the summer, which did little to dissuade the male ducks from devoting unrequited attention to the confused duck.

The mountain = plain, expected, textbook. Not a single myth or legend about its features. Just a jutted mountain up from the ground. A tall, increasingly inclined mountain covered in sticks and bushes and predators.

Rover’s first attempt was interrupted by slight showers.

Second through fifth, he progressed nicely, and found a willing climbing partner, S_____.

His sixth ascent, he reached nearly two-thirds the way up.

The seventh ascent, death by boulder.

one disjunctive for 

another without 

premise

what then =

the shape;

color; fate.

Longitudinal edge

fixed within

a duplicitously

unhandled handle

[ ] whose 

terminal members curl 

the grooves for 

[good luck]

a malicious exhibit

unrelentingly vindictive

to wit; to whet; do it

Or by way of alternative: rusted inveterate bitter ill-feeling rancour; see also grudge firmly established by long continuance, or animosity; immovably, unalterably careless obstinate course

Regardless

Into the back

it goes

with ecstatic delicacy

you've planted a flag where

winds have  b   l    o     w         n 

after destitute salutes

#

a surrogate stands after

the battle, unprepared

for trenches; whites of eyes

unseen due to this dream

#

is a race around the track a

meet? who blew the whistle;

what else would

you like?

left without spine it's

no wonder

you cannot

take a

S

T

A

N

D

#

sympathy for the duplicitous

grasp the abstract, slip

and 

f

a

l

l

far past the borderline

into enemy territory

#

(excerpt from my much longer essay about a country-spanning baseball trip) 

GROUND ZERO: THE VERITABLE BILLBOARD OF CONSTRUCTION

After the Yankees game, [my older brother Matt and I] felt like taking a quick tour around the city before heading out to the next game. We drove around the Bronx, Manhattan, and other parts of New York. We saw the Statue of Liberty from a distance, drove by Ground Zero, and Times Square. Matt grew anxious with the ever-increasing traffic. He spouted off about “morons” and “frickin’ idiots” nonstop. He wouldn’t stop two things: complaining or the car. He, in his huh-what’s-the-big-deal nonchalant demeanor determined that we’d only drive by the six-years-hence footprint of cataclysm. I really wanted to stop, though. Some fascination of a place so familiar yet unknown. Why? I'm still not sure. I know I wanted to, but I also felt I needed to stop.

The city minded its business as traffic lunged away in all directions like scattered packing peanuts when a hair dryer aims its propelled air. We made what was essentially a u-turn around Ground Zero; I saw concrete, fences, signs, construction hats and rubble. Still? There I was, in person, a few years removed from the tragedy (the following week would be six years to the day), and no real area to stop, to reflect? I soaked in what I could grasp, my eyes darting about like watching tennis in fast forward; it was difficult to take in and was so fleeting. I reached for it, as if the site was supposed to be something tangible to grasp. “Matt, can you at least slow down? I’d like a picture,” I said. “Well, the traffic… you understand. We couldn’t stop if I wanted to,” he replied. I snapped a picture and it was blurry. In a snap of fingers, it was gone, missed.

How is it that the felled building was still gone? It was a ghost building, a haunt of epic proportions. D.F. Wallace referred to 9/11 as ‘The Horror,’ and the word fits. It simply took a drive-by glimpse to prove to be the ultimate reminder. Without being able to stop the car, I was immediately taken back to The Horror. Like a conduit into the collective memories that everyone has shared, everyone has made their own.

It happened on my day off. I was working at a golf course and was sleeping in. I was only a few months removed from my high school graduation, and I really enjoyed sleeping in. My mother woke me up early, telling me that Maybe You’d Be Interested to Know that An Aircraft Has Hit A Prominent New York Building. I said "yikes" and fell back asleep. Then she came back minutes later and told me that It Was Not Random, Two Planes Have Hit The Two World Trade Towers, There Seems To Be A Weird Connection or Coincidence. My smarter-than-me mother knew that I’d want to follow this unknown story. I just wanted to sleep in longer. But thinking of my mother in the doorway -- rushedly semi-ready for the day, her arms wrapped as if the praying pose were also hugging herself -- really stuck with me. I stretched, prepared cereal and turned my attention to the television. I’d missed it; those replays like a weird dream on unfortunate repeat.

I didn't know at the time that the entire world would change that day. I went about my planned business with my friends. I bought two new release albums that came out that Tuesday. The current me would like to pretend that I bought Bob Dylan’s new release “Love and Theft” that day, but in reality I bought the new albums by P.O.D. and Jay-Z. We always went to Circuit City on Tuesday for the new releases. Then we played homerun derby at a local baseball field, while talking about the crazy morning. We all decided that we would join the military and kick the collective dead-meat asses of the perpetrator bastards. 

None of us did. We had no idea what we were talking about. We jolted our eyes upward at every sound of aircraft or audible bird, which seemed to slowly become more and more infrequent as the day went on. We were emotionally enveloped and jarred out of a comfortable state. And it all came back to me that early September 2007 morning, whisked off in the blurry New York traffic. One New York minute, and it was gone. I’d missed it.

Good Evening,

I’ve decided to write you to tell you about a documentary film that I’m supporting vocally and financially. I’m excited about this film and thought you might as well. The film is called STREET FIGHTING MAN.

STREET FIGHTING MAN is the story of regular people fighting for the betterment of their communities on Detroit's East side. As you probably know, Detroit has been hit hard by the slow decay of the auto industry and the recent downturn in the economy. Police stations and schools have closed down, vacant lots now cover half the city, and violent crime is on the rise. It’s hard to imagine, but parts of the city resemble a third world country. It’s shocking how bad things have become, and I’d like to do something about it, utilizing whatever finite capability I can muster as far as being able to help out. The filmmakers behind STREET FIGHTING MAN need some money to get their film off the ground. I recently donated a modest 30 dollars and plan on donating at least once more in the next two days.

It’s far too easy to assume one’s small contribution is of little significance. Helping out with this film is a superb way to get involved in a great cause. Whether you donate one dollar or one hundred, your help is appreciated and goes a long way to ensure this film’s message is delivered to as many people as possible, especially those capable of making changes amidst the turmoil depicted in the film. 

 This film doesn’t just focus on all of the doom and gloom usually associated with media reports. STREET FIGHTING MAN focuses on real people; stories of those who are clinging to hope and fighting to make a difference. One of the subjects of the film actually polices his own neighborhood, equipped with both a video camera and a shotgun.

I strongly encourage you to do what you can to help. They are using a website called Kickstarter to raise $6500 by September 3rd. If they can't raise that amount by the deadline, the filmmakers won't get any of the money that has been pledged so far, including my donation. They need to raise a few hundred more dollars. Every little bit counts, especially now with such a short amount of time left so please take a look at their campaign and please consider donating: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/335378703/street-fighting-man/

If you decide to donate, you will earn a corresponding reward. Check out the different levels of rewards on the link provided. It’s the best and easiest way to get your name on an important film. The director, Andrew James, is a good friend of mine, as is Jolyn. We camp, talk about baseball, gripe about goings-on and laugh a lot. His films have had some previous success. His last documentary, CLEANFLIX, is still playing at film festivals all over the country. Last year, it premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival, which is one of the top three festivals in the world. You can learn more about Andrew and his producing partners at the same link above.

Thanks for taking the time to read this and let me know if you have any questions.

Best,

Jack 

Just grab that thing right there, son. That’s it, the rock.

Next to it. The flatter one… Goddamn it… Here, this one.

Grab it and then place it like a jelly-jar lid between your pointer finger and your thumb. Good.

Why, take that there rock and rear back like a sprinkler head, ready to launch the thing. But make sure you reeeeeel it back good and hard. No… more angled… up, not down. Like… this. Otherwise you’ll sink it. Don’t sink that stone, son. Mustn’t sink it.

So, reared-back and eyes steadied, step forward swingin’, slingin’ your arm, but more or less guide that thing. You ain’t got a chance, nope. Come on.

Let the rock choose its course. Let it think that it is in control. Otherwise, you’ll sink that stone. C a n n o t  sink it, son.

So, as that rock thinks it has control, you, not thinkin’, will fling it when your arm’s nearly fully-extended. You’re slappin’ the horizon, if you really get down to it and think about it.

But son, don’t think about the rock. Don’t think about me, you, mama. Ain’t nothin’ to think about except nothin’.

Just that open horizon – hurl it towards that horizon and upon release you’ll see just what you haven’t thought about.

It will glide from you, and you’ll know it before it strikes water. Know that you thought about it or not. Know that you launched it all right.

You feel it more than throw it, son.

Knowin’, mid-flight, whether you’ve given that rock the journey you’ve set out to give it. Know if it will skip its way across endless meters of otherwise uninterrupted calm. The beauty of the skippin’, dancin’ rock, barely grazin’ that surface, hoppin’ distances a rock could only dream about going by itself.

You see, son, you can give that rock a livelihood it cannot achieve on its own.

So tell me now, son.

Are you gonna sink that stone?

You wake up. You see the mirror you’ve looked at countless times, yet a spider meanders across and all you can think is maybe he sees himself like I see me. I don’t see myself like that any longer. 

The railway was hiring nightshift and that’s nothing that a good 16 ounce coffee can’t make reasonable. Your dad told you that.

But your father wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like this. 

The night sends its stars across the sky like spiders on the mirror. You’re down 32 ounces and 2 hours and without eight legs, this will be a long night.