Prose

Lukewarm Night Stale Ambition
Damned ambitions. They never had a fightin’ chance. I guess society is hang up on the cessation of youthful energies ever bein' released in any sort of decent matter, ‘cause when the moon drags her sorry self across the curve of the heavens all shudders close while the young, restless, madness drivin’ youth squirm in their seats as blood in their high-fructos’d  veins dance wild reenactment of jazz, almost breaking meter. Always in the processes of self-devastation, our generational motto, “Oblivion Bound!” in fuckin’ capitals till the ship hits the proverbial glacier, an’ things get real interestin’ real quick. But till then we are t’ be kept sedated, held t’ our shit service jobs an’ note-card knowledge spat up into young mind in universities t’ fill useless gaps in the coggin’ machine of societal affairs.
HA.
My tale has as much relation t’ the above as disapproves off, a happy little medium space all events like t’ occupy in accordance t’ theory, written in  dry Texan dirt on a black an’ white page. It all started when I just got over servin’ 10 or so hour sentence at my place of appointment an’ my bones were ready for resurrection. I called up Skylar an’ his stand by gal, a sweet little thing whom adopted the name Amanda at birth.
“Hello?”
Skylar! Hey buddy this is Ron, how the hell is life treatin’ ya?”
“Blissfully.”
“Good, man listen I just got off a long shift, which I don’t really feel like talkin’ ‘bout nor explainin’, but if it don’t mind the lady t’ much would be alright if I stayed down out there with the both of you?”
“No not at all. But if your lookin’ t’ trade musical grace, I have none at the moment. Remember, only got a guitar over here. 2 broken strings.”
“Oh, well don’t worry about it, I’ll grab some string boxes from my place.”
“Cool, it’s a nice night we should go out an’ play at Washington Park.”
So I made my way down gateway, headin’ East an’ retrieved my ol’ stand by, a Martian Guitar, naked wood, no finish, an’ my cheap banjo with a 5th string that enjoys harmonizin’ with notes you’d rather wish it didn’t. The I took t’ the mechanical, asphalt covered artery of this greater Portland metro area headin’ back West like a good little blood cell operatin’ unceasingly t’ the demands of the great industrious body. With windows down I blasted Hard Bop jazz into the sweet virgin spring air. The sound of Mingus’s crazed masculine accents de-flowered the softness the Northwestern night treasured. I wheel-burrowed out laughs which I felt no particular attachment t’.  
Skylar was spendin’ his time downtown at his girls place known as hollowed goose, a big ugly apartment building that housed kids who went t’ various art schools in Portland. Every time I get there an’ see the name Hollowed Goose, written in those giant Victorian letters across the soiled white wall, I think of a bunch of big rimmed, dark glasses wearin’ hipsters stuffed inside a hollowed out goose. Upon getting’ there I called them t’ have them meet me down at my car. Thank god I decided t’ carry my harmonica with me that night, for both Skylar an’ Amanda are slow on their own but when together, the world might as well end before they’ll show up.
 I started-a-hissin’ into the squared-out holes. It definitely had been awhile. At first it sounded as though I was jugglin’ loose change in my mouth but eventually I re-gained some grace an’ I culled together a little tune. I sounded like a drunk Irshman tryin’ t’ play the blues an’ the deepenin’ maw of the city streets hummed a natural feedback. The universe is always tryin’ t’ harmonize with itself, but it’s always outta time (frustratingly). I stomp’d my foot t’ agitate the dead-faced city floor, the ring of its corpse builds percussion t’ match with my jinglin’ melody. An’ then I moaned some lyrics from the carbon I stole outta the neighborin’ atmosphere.
“OHHHhhh aint it harddddddd,
Whennn nnone off youurr frrreeiendss,
Dooonnttt bbeeliieve in timmee??”
My voice threw a bitch fit, tossin’ itself around the notes bendin’ and crackin dejectedly. Some drunk young women stumbled on by (heels were a bad choice), showin’ no interest in my passion. Whatever.
When the couple arrived we piled back into my car an’ made our way t’ Washington Park. The way there, we sat in silence as Blind Willie McTell taught us truth from the harsh crackle of the cars speakers shakin’ in awe of its graveled rawness. The drive was short lived an’ the park itself bared itself a more intense black than expected. We unloaded the instruments an’ made our way t’ the blackness of the park, which lingered up the slope that started where the sidewalk ended. As we accented up two figures approached in an impressionistic haze. Two transvestites. One was a dark colored she-male, with bleached blonde curls, wearin’ hideously glossy purple dress with a leopard hide colored jacket, with fluffed collar. The other was a White he/she, short haired, heavy makeup smeared over tough, masculine facial features, a real rough conflict of interest between desires and genetics. That one had on a short black skirt.
“Hey, do any of you got a cigarette?”
Skylar an' I threw out some no's an' sorrys for neither of use had a nicotine fix at hand though Amanda awkwardly drew out an affirmin’ “sure”, then dug carelessly into her cavernous purse. Camel lights. She retrieved three tobacco sticks from the tan, plastic wrapped paper, keepin’ one for her own satisfaction.  
"Thanks"
"Yeah, eh no problem"
"Hmm what are ya all up t' tonight?"
"Well, we're bored, it's nice out, so might as well play some music somewhere", I replied.
"Cool, cool, do ya mind if we hang out a little?"
Then in an almost rehearsed soundin' chorus of words, we simultaneously said somethin' t' the effect of, "Sure, why the hell not?”
“I’m Ron, by the way.” I shook both of their hands, both quite callused. Everyone followed.
“Skylar, pleased t’ meet you”
“Amanda”
“Nice t’ meet ya all, I’m Honey.”
“Yes thank you. You can called me, Sweet Pea.”
So I enacted a Buddha pose on the moist grass an’ drew my banjo from its holster, along with its mechanisms, metal finger picks I placed over finger tips as they screamed in the awkward removal of blood, the flesh turned a bemoan’d blue. Good. I then made my first incision, an’ the patient replied with a god-awful twang. Outta tune. So I opened up my ear canals t’ the delicate tonal difference between perfect major tones that I’ll isolate from the dissonant, diminish’d croonin’ that surround it. As plucked an’ adjusted, I listened t’ the notes linger. Sheer beatuty, all the forestation of the parks light grasp of the night sky was offerin’ some acoustics.  
Skylar was on my Martian guitar, outta the soft body case soundin’ off like heavily angel hums. Amanda brought with her a ukulele she made at her school a year or so, constructed outta a cigar box. She rarely played the thing but she musta thought the park would offer some privacy which had been stolen by the two transvestites. So she sat, head slouched over down t’ the sound hole so only she could hear mouse-footstep plucks against the forgivin’ nylon.
“Do ya know the B chord?” Skylar mouthed.
“No, I don’t”
So he begins t’ show her a series of chords in a secession that no novice would be able t’ interpret an’ more importantly, memorize. As I was fine tuning the last bit of my banjo, I thought about the power structures of love. As Skylar gestured chord patterns an’ critiqued Amanda’s finger positioning, he held a presence of dominance t’ him. He knew somethin’ she didn’t which leveraged a certain amount of control. Outwardly, Skylar is not one for conscious situational dominance, but like with anyone, it seeps outta the subconscious or unconscious into the polygraph test papers, in erratic, caffeinated lines, as we lie through our innocent teeth, while the unconscious gets the cold sweats.
It was time t’ toss some gestural, improv noise t’ the heavens. I started us off with blues riffs flowin’ in and outta the key of G. I pulled the tone into a mad strut, exhaustin’ out all the thunder cluttered in my wastebasket mind, wet an’ bitter from service job hell. Skylar had a broken bottleneck slide that he slid across the wired tension, cullin’ lazy accents out t’ meet my awkward white boy swagger, the blue rhythm t’ this collage of sound. An’ fuck, what-a-collage, both of our Euro-American ancestries patched together in sound quilt.
“I feel Like a broke down engine,
Boy you know I can run,
I FEEL like a BROke down engine,
Puffin’ dust, no acceleratin’
Ya left on the clutch,
Engine’s a mess
Now there aint no place t’ puff my exhaust”.
Off in the distance lights prodded the silhouettin’ contours of the trees. The fun was over, the she-men knew it, an’ they waddled away on their high heels.
“Hey, you guys can't be here, park’s closed!” they hollered from a good 20 or so metered distance, onto of the bend in the neighborin’ grassy knoll. The instruments went back into their soft cages. Silent. We made our way down t’ the parkin’ lot.
“God… why would they need t’ close a park” Amanda complained.
“Yeah, jesus it’s a park for christsakes, music didn’t hurt no one” Skylar continued.
“Let’s get wasted” I added.
So we went back an’ parked at the Hallowed Goose. Amanda had a fake ID and I had four bucks lingerin' in my pocket. We bought two bottles of Ale, which I drunk most of in on a bench in front of a Catholic church, jokingly, thinking of the forgiveness I could receive much like the bums huddled up in dirtied sleepin’ bags at the door. Forgiveness is holy. Holy is love. Love like jazz, can be sloppy, or somethin’ t’ that effect I mused as we continued the music, cut short again by drunken stupor.
“Jeez if ya can’t even play music in a park, what else is there besides indulgin’ in reckless activities?” I articulated, under a mild slur of language, then threw back another swig.
“I dunno, watch late night talk shows?”
 Our laughs echoed the weary distance.