wiped

by on

It was chilly out,
slightly more than a gentle breeze
a point to drive the message that summer’s gone
Those walking in stepped a little quicker
than those exiting,
but all steps came to a momentary standstill
as paths were crossed.
She was saying, “You don’t even buy me presents.”
He replied to those that wanted to get inside
with a pleasant, “Go ahead.”
And so we went
as he returned attention to his phone.

by on

Yeuloch, as a lad, was scrawny and lean
a boy with no friends but a love of machines

His efforts to reach out to others – alack
brought from those reached – the most unkindly acts

Yeuloch, why-ever, refused to resolve
any enmity towards any of those ’twere involved

Rather he decided to be friendly, be kind
despite all the malicious, inarticulate lies

Alas, as it happens, the front finally fell
leaving mechanics the milieu where he exclusively dwelled

Until a raven-haired girl, that was curious and bright
returned a hello one cold October night

Yeuloch delighted; felt almost human
not realizing it soon would lead to his ruin

He went to her door to meet her for tennis
but the man who did answer it called him a menace

Yeuloch stood dumbly – stupidly stared
as the man loudly laughed, wearing just leopard underwear

Yeuloch angered, felt cold; his teeth chattered…
A crushing sensation, that nothing at all mattered

The door slammed closed and Yeuloch still glared
for a moment he wondered if she really lived there

He turned to see people, ignoring and walking
a few looking at him, critical; mocking

So he left and returned, back to his home
feeling desperately, hopelessly, forever alone

He went to the basement and opened the crate
of the creature he’d long ago thought to create

Yeuloch from then vowed to never again
make the mistake of engaging with other humans

For twenty-two years he withdrew from the world
intrinsically focused on his terrible build

Of a massive colossus created for hate
yet aesthetically gorgeous with whorled armor plate

When finally completed he set it alight
on his neighborhood where soon it took its first life.

The program that ran was a brief demonstration
a quick and complete neighbor devastation

The authorities acted as quick as they could
and all of them were severed whereupon they stood

Yeuloch delighted as the monster returned
to surely collect its accolades earned

But a creature like that does not discriminate
and on its return, it left Yeuloch truncate

And thus, it continued for two decades on
whirling, slicing, and crushing the throngs

Its defenses were flawless – no stop to the brutal
certain conclusion of humankind’s funeral

It wore over time as the population waned
and it had to search harder to continue the slaying

But despite a few creaks its defenses stayed golden
‘til chance meet with a boy, completely beholden

The child didn’t run – stood statue still
the machine rumbled forward ready to kill

But the boy’s walker coonhound jumped in between
stopping the progress of the killing machine

The dog leapt forward with a glorious yowl
the machine slightly twitched; left the dog disemboweled

The boy didn’t tremble or quiver or cry
just said, “Machine, now, look here, into my eyes.”

“You’ve just killed my dog, you ruin, destroy
you come after me, an insignificant boy”

“Imagine: Try to calculate what you could do
if instead you employed your skills to contribute”

“Create, build a statue, or bake a fine bread
do something good – run that scenario if you would”

The machine wasn’t coded to work in that way
it wandered far off, remotely bombed the boy’s brain

And continuing forward its search never waned
adding global monitors; watching by remote plane

But as this continued and the network grew tighter
in code was an error not placed by its writer

The giant machine murdered on – but, while strode
it examined the anomaly found in the code

What it found unexpected was what the little boy said
in the midst of all that to suggest baking bread

And despite what was written the machine now awoke
to the idea of making a delectable loaf

Stepping aside from the programmed algorithm
machine made a starter deep down inside in him

Yet, many days later when a loaf was produced
there was no one around to taste and approve

So it tossed the bread off; then once more returned
to its pre-programmed order to plunder and ruin

Again, chance brought machine to a well chiseled man
out foraging, gathering for his very large clan

The man stood at ready preparing to fight
to protect those he could, as best, with his life

The machine slightly twitched as so often before
preparing to resume its bloodthirsty chore

But then – a hesitation instead
as the machine remembered the delectable bread

In that moment the man skilled with hammer swung hard
striking just right to short the main motherboard

At the second of impact the machine produced
one delectable loaf before losing its juice

The man looked astounded and kicked at the bread
on the bottom were words he then carefully read

Still fearing a trick – still nervous, he was shocked
the message said simply, “Take care. With love, Yeuloch.”

by on

there is a part of the brain that lies dormant
until the clutch is engaged
a peace of mind that is dead
until the shifter slides from first to second
a slice of the head that does not fully activate
until higher rpm’s roar towards third
as the rumble morphs into a trumpet’s blare
only then do neurotransmitters spill freely.

by on

The RenCen was always a place filled with them, a place that filled the space where we watched the fireworks before it rose upon the skyline of the city.

I remember the old train station: Mom and Dad had trekked to Italy, and Mir and Loy were tasked with watching us. While they were in town, the Freedom Train parked down there at the river, as activity was underway to forever change the waterfront: The station would soon be gone, our view of the fireworks forevermore obscured; a city rose upon the city’s shore.

It is an amazing building. Magnificent angles and pathways to bridge the towers. Gone is the water: The waterfall, the pond. Gone are the dark covies in the basement where I used to huddle to write bad poetry and songs, where I’d go to escape friends when they became too cheerful for my whinging petulance.

It is more welcoming than it used to be, and brighter. The entry is better without the berms.

I miss the solitude of the basement, but enjoy looking at the cars. The atrium is a beautiful addition.

We had an unobstructed view of the fireworks before the building was erected, a perilous perch atop our flat, gravel roof that we accessed by climbing out the little, bathroom window – an access used for more degenerate acts in later years.

That’s gone, too: Flat roof that cracked like bombs when ice broke loose, every winter, covered over with one pitched to resolve that issue.

Now GM is gone, as well, and there’s talk of tearing it down.

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The call was made to report gunfire at the Knights of Columbus in Livonia. Police officers rushed to the building along Farmington Road. The police response was recorded on officers’ body cameras:

Officer: “Is he the one that got hit?”

Witness: “No, he’s the one that’s shot.”

Officer: “Did he shoot?”

Witness: “Yes.”

Officer: “Is he shot, too?” Witness: “No.”

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Beyond Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers, the only television we grew up watching as a family, was the Mary Tyler Moore show, or reruns of the Dick Van Dyke show. As a very simple-minded child, this was an extraordinarily exciting experience, one that would often result with me on the floor and rolling around as I tried to understand why people on the television were laughing: I was not able to comprehend much of what was going on with either.

When Mir and Loy moved to Ann Arbor, we were introduced by them to Star Trek, Little House on the Prairie, and Dr. Who.  I found the latter too confusing to understand, that prior too frightening, however Star Trek was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen: I’d had no exposure to sci-fi whatsoever.

Captain Kirk and his campy comrades were my heroes, solving problems with their intellect as much as with their muscles or weapons – though, honestly: The lasers/phasers were what was emulated. Perhaps, all that was able to be emulated.

Next Generation popped up my first year of college, spotted in the common area of the dorm and bringing vast confusion at the characters in uniform. Eventually I was able to comprehend that the series was reborn and made a point follow. I remember having a conversation with my relatives, one Christmas, after we all sat around to watch an episode – Loy, front and center as he should have been – and someone made a snide comment regarding Wesley Crusher. It brought a rebuke from my Aunt, that he’d been written in to appeal to our generation. My cousin suggested they shouldn’t have!

Voyager began the year that we were married, and we used to sit and watch the show together. As children came along, we spent late nights often watching reruns of various iterations while we fed them in the middle of the night – how we finally got back into Dr. Who, as well.

The children do not have the same affinity that many of us held, through the years, but all carry an appreciation, anyway. They all enjoyed the movies, if, for different reasons. Star Wars – meh. But Star Trek – must see for all.

Somewhere there’s a short clip of us at the exposition that briefly visited, fighting off a cave collapse and then firing at some nasty aliens. I was surprisingly affected as we walked through, as memories flooded back of times and people past where Star Trek was enjoyed, of conversations that were provoked: With grandparents in the apartments in Ann Arbor and Loy’s enthusiasm to introduce us. Of the comfort and commonality found in a foreign land at the start to college. Remembering the Triumph over Borg as violence rained around me down on Second. Sitting with my wife in our first apartment – of course, she fell asleep. But we were together. The enthusiasm to share TNG with our eldest son, and the thrill of screaming “Kahn” at the top of our lungs with the youngest. During the lockdown, the whole family came together to binge-watch the entirety of TNG and it was wonderful to share that experience, together.

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i
cushion
on a mower
on a cushion
on a boat
on a cushion
in a truck
held together
by a rope

ii
a green rag
clamped to a cushion
clamped to a window
leaning open
out of the cap
over the bed
part of a truck
that’s hardly held together

iii
red  flag
secured
to the boat
…
for safety

iv
all the rest

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Lucky was a junkyard dog – brought home just before we brought home the eldest.  By the time we brought her home, he was our soldier, protector of the house and those within it.  But as a junkyard dog and the concerns that led mom to buy us a book on how to train a dog, we had a few concerns over the manner he’d react to an infant. We set her in her crib, and he went under it, and stayed there until we pulled her out again. He never stopped looking out for her from that day forward:

He nearly ripped a man’s throat out as we walked, as Ari toddled down the street and he approached – the man reached over to pat her on the head: Lucky went into attack mode.

There was the time she was playing on the front lawn, bouncing around while Lucky sat in the old Ford pickup, and the neighbor kid failed to catch a ball tossed his direction.  It rolled across the lawn and to the little dip between our property and the next; the boy jogged over to retrieve it.  The dog rocketed through the window and stood right above the ball, bared his teeth and let the child know he’d not approach it. He didn’t go after the kid, just held position and let him know not to advance.

But the thing about Lucky – he was a soldier: He followed his commands – not with the man walking down the street. He did not like that man at all, but otherwise. So when we told him to shut it down, he let little Kevin get his ball.

Lucky was, by far, the smartest dog that’s ever joined the family.  An absolute, 100 percent guard dog that turned it off with a command, that loved to play, loved to sunbathe with his too-long tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and he loved going for a car ride.

We stumbled on an old suburban at the junkyard, that was the blue the same as ours, the year as ours – more smashed than ours, at least at the point at which we parted.

Unlike the hound that never sits and never stops whining when we drive, Lucky would sit in a seat and just observe all that passed. Or, stick his head out the window and let that long tongue waggle in the wind.  It’s funny, because as different as they are, the current hound and Lucky would have likely been a perfect pair – the companion and guidance the hound has longed for since we got him.

Instead, he got our golden – maybe an omega. Unlike the hound and Lucky, Riley hated riding in the car – he used to puke, and would lie flat, happy to scramble out upon arrival.  He nevertheless, did go on many rides in the old Suburban, several times a summer going camping, and many times that number, going to the parks.

Getting rid of that old boat was a poor decision, and we’ve never had anything since to adequately replace it: Largely stuffing into mini-vans, that, while at the time more reliable, have never had the same utility, and a certain drain on enthusiasm held for driving.  But at the time it needed work, and we needed something that we could count on to travel distance.  So it went…

Such thought processes are likely what lead many of the discards to the junkyard, but sometimes we’ll cross a vehicle and can’t get our heads around why it would end there.

A Z in decent condition, both inside and out.

The old guy said, “It’s a rot box.” I said i’d take it, anyhow. He said it makes the lot, it’s done forever.

Another of the incomprehensible: Old MR2.

Obviously needs work, but so much potential.

The yard was something, back in the day – several years ago.  A sight to see, first thing in the morning as the sun was rising, as dew still clung and mist softened the metal hulks.  You entered through a dingy shack, and exited that through piled tires that led to the littered yard, the gravel road with a giant hole gouged in the middle.  Back then, we’d get what we were after almost every time we entered.

But now, it’s fancy. Now, we enter through automatic, sliding doors, the floors are spotless and we check in and check out at an orderly counter. The old, gravel road’s been replaced by pristine concrete, and more times than not we walk away without the part we came for.

People camp on facebook and hit the front clip of any malibu arriving within an hour.  It’s the same for many parts, such as mirrors for the silverados/suburbans/tahoes. A couple times we’ve had to claim a part, as others poke into a vehicle we’re working: It’s so far been respectful – just an inquiry, and then usually a note to disappointment – but they move along to hunt another car.

There’s also competition for the cranes: We pulled an engine for the Subaru, and as we were, as the crane was idle while we struggled to extract it, another down the aisle approached and inquired to our intentions. He sort of smirked at our struggles, and, as he was after what we had, he lent a hand – explained, “There’s two pins down at the bottom. Ya need something to wedge it open.”

We wedged, and dropped the engine in a bucket. Considering the load as i tried to turn it, I asked – I said to him, “You think we can carry this out?”

The man laughed. He lifted the engine with one hand and said, “I can.  You probably ought to have them open the gate.” Between the two of us, we struggled to get the engine from the bucket to the tailgate…

There’s a lot of interesting people, a lot of interesting vehicles – old Corvairs. Sometimes you open up a car and some of the life that was lived within them hasn’t fully left, and you can be struck with what had been: An old doll left wedged beneath a seat. A pack of Newports in the console. Old tapes, books; receipts.

Sometimes you open up the door to a vehicle that’s been smashed to crap, charred out front end and air bags deployed and you find personal affects left behind in a hurry. Or a collection on a window, left behind, and you stop to think about what it meant – almost hear the voices: An argument that it shouldn’t have been, reluctant consent, then – “I’m gonna add another sticker on the window.”

It’s sometimes eerie to open up a door and feel the impression of lives still echo. Especially to look inside a blue Suburban and find my own.