In a garden of weeds
a worm recedes through red clay,
covering itself with tender coats
of treason and slithers gray—
almost floats on fruitless
If it does this properly, it will
be compared to fingers and
not trains but still, the soil is
too bland to be tilled and
the grains too strong willed
for green streams.
“All Gays should be shot.” Silence fell around us. Did they hear me, hear what I just said? I didn’t think so, so I said it again. This time, they heard me.
It was 1996. We were hanging out at Carl’s Diner in New Jersey. It was late, and I don’t know how this conversation steered in that direction. I was lost in thought, and then someone said something that dragged me back to reality.
After another minute of walking, Dewey departed from the pebble-strewn road and lumbered up the steps to a mobile home. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder and make sure Christopher hadn’t bolted. His guest, however, clomped up the stairs behind him. Dewey assured himself this man would allow Dewey to please him. I am not a freak, he told himself. I can attract a worthy man. Mama’s wrong about me. She’s wrong about everything.
“I’m gonna need to smoke a bowl or two to stay in this shithole,” Christopher announced, following Dewey into the empty mobile home.
Marilyn rarely slept much anymore. She would catch maybe a couple of hours, if she was lucky, but that would be about it. Maybe that’s why she woke with a start from the dead sleep; her internal clock had realized that she’d been unconscious for four hours, had known that was a mistake, and had woken her up with a tap on the shoulder. Even before she floated all the way through the black peacefulness of sleep, she knew she was alone. That brought her fully awake in seconds, not out of fear, but out of a deep, angry sadness.
She lay there quietly, listening to the sounds of the apartment, listening for Luke’s blundering around in the kitchen, or in the bathroom.
The Vreckless Vrestlers series is a comic tribute to pop culture of the ’80s and ’90s – wrestling, toys, cartoons, comics and games of these times. Things which still give me lots of joy and will forever remain a great inspiration. For me, one of most important things about my comics is that I am doing everything myself, except translations. Script, design, drawing, preparing files for digital and print, promotion – I do it all without crowd funding or sponsors. 100% DIY. Of course, I have support from my wife and friends!
Issue #0 introduces the main players in this time-defying universe.
Do you know it’s in my nature to want, want people, places and things, not being fully satisfied but just always in want? Why am “eye” like this? Wanting just to be wanting, never ever really needing, just wanting?
“Eye” want my woman to love me, spoil me, cook for me, pamper me just want her to do something for me! Look at me, being as selfish as “eye” can be. When will my desire to want set me free? Is it that “eye” am just like other wanters in search of wanting and never really needing?
Harry Frankfurt, an American philosopher who has taught at Princeton Yale and Rockefeller Universities, explores in his lectures the idea that what one loves reflects what he or she values and their own self conception. Frankfurt believes that what we love and care about is a part of our psychic raw material and cannot be changed without intense personal examination.
“What took you so goddamn long, boy?” Margene demanded. “I been calling your name since the commercial.” On the big-screen television, a perky blonde with dazzling teeth cooed about the efficacy of scented douche. Whenever Margene needed another wine cooler or wanted to empty the ashtray, she wailed for her son, Dewey, to leave his computer and assist her. He shuffled from the back of the mobile home, past all the piles of cardboard boxes lining the hall, and into the living room where Margene held court. Cigarette dangling from her lips and remote control clenched in her grip, she growled for Dewey to complete the tasks her sloth made untenable.
For the past half century, I have never seen
A single frog in this city, not even in the whole country
But there are four big-mouthed frogs leaping around
Afar in a rice field of my native village
If Sam Axe died
on USA’s intense dramatic show,
I would have cried
for a character I always wanted to know,
and Burn Notice would have sighed