BUFFALO

Buffalo

Andrew's Room

Back in the US

Back in the US

Back in the US(A)SR

TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA II

Things have improved.

My new view on Bay Street. 

But only she is allowed to take pictures of she.

TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA

Canadian Customs was incredibly reluctant to allow me into the country. First agent was skeptical, second agent was frustrated and annoyed, third agent googled her and gave me dating advice. She was the small girl by the large column. I had been sweating for hours and hours, mostly in customs.
I tried to sleep on the plane. I’d been up drinking until 4am when I booked my hotel. If I hadn’t booked a hotel, they probably wouldn’t have let me in. Sleeping on the plane was nearly impossible though. The hotel shuttle took us to some strange hotel somewhere in the middle of airport semi-industrial nowhere, near the racetrack. Pretty much everywhere I’ve stayed has had a look like this:

We walked through the little shopping complex, a Tim Hortons (Canadian Starbucks), a fertility clinic, and 10 empty storefronts. That kind of place, always around that. The next hotel was the dirtiest and strangest I’ve ever seen. The enormous room with the stained carpets and the huge windows with tacky curtains with smelly hallways and back stairs that said ‘Fuck You’. I bought a knife and ate the spiciest potato chips ever, good job Canada. This hotel is far North basically in her little suburbtown, it’s much nicer than the other places and is comfortable; been watching too much food network though. Trying to get an airbnb place to stay downtown, but it’s all runaround so far as I can tell. She laughs very loudly.
Other good things:

It’s been raining more than snowing, and has only been incredibly cold on the days we ended up walking around.
The subway is almost silent.
The accents are completely entertaining (also Canadians LOVE cussing in fucking public).
I found a Mexican food restaurant that is on par with anything in the Southwest.
I haven’t felt sick too often.
        

Some not so great things:
Corona is 45CAD for a 24pack, and 5ths of american whiskey are about 40 dollars as well.
       
I have to leave by the 21st or I can be arrested and deported; customs gave me exactly 30 days, which is shitty and made me spend so much more money.
It does get Flagstaff cold but with more moisture in the air.

Running out of money and feel like a true consumer.




Toronto is pretty cool. The CN tower is out there somewhere

and it belongs to the dead.

Canada

In The Hotel

It said "Fuck You".

In The Wooded Places

and maybe

if lucky and let to breathe

they would have wounded each other

as we have

while we let our hearts pump blood

into each other’s open chests

as we have

feel the fear of death

as we now know what it means to

live

You will bleed on me

when I break into your secret

but we will have prepared

and trained for it

as soldiers do we will know that blood is the sacrifice for even the hope of everything good

kept in the open and never to rot

and never be thrown away

Jessicat Blackwood

Let me inside you. I will walk the hallways of your heart, I will sweep and mop the floors. I will polish and dust all the little trinkets made of memories and emotions. I will make the beds and do the laundry. And finally I will open that door that holds only cold and silence and blackness and I will walk in that space and fill it with candles and torches and singing and laughter and the darkness will be purged, and then finally you will emerge shy and timid and I will hold you close.

NO MORE KETCHUP, EVER

NO MORE KETCHUP, EVER

 At 3:31 PM PST Daylight Saving Time on June 30th 2012 all ketchup on the planet Earth
vanished;
as if some omnipotent cocktail napkin meticulously wiped down every plate,
dabbed every lip; as if some magic faucet paired with the eternal sponge
from beyond the stars emptied and flushed every bottle;
every vat and pot all scrubbed immaculate by this supernatural and sentient
pressure-washer;
all lazily made barbecue sauces turned into
vinegary mixtures of onions and spices in their bottles;
like some red-haired angel drank the ketchup from the earth and with each drop herself
became more a demon.

The H. J. Heinz corporation (and other smaller ketchup manufacturers) immediately began scrambling to restore production, though it’s unclear if it would have made any difference; H.J. Heinz’s CFO probably knew that and that’s why he fell to the Pittsburgh pavement. 
The Dow Jones Industrial Average, NASDAQ, and many stock markets across the globe immediately fell steeply. 
National leaders urged their nations’ citizens to be calm; some news stations in an attempt at levity dubbed the situation ‘Ketchupgate’. Religious leaders, however, almost unanimously preached the event to be a sign of the end of end of days; maybe they were right. Continuous prayer vigils by every major religion. Nearly total global panic. Riots in Athens, Toronto, Los Angeles, London, Helsinki. The whole population of the planet feeling the fear and dread, the anticipation, everyone just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Extreme and nearly immediate rise in crime, followed by an even steeper rise in violence, and suicide, as the human race tried to cope with a phenomenon of such magnitude, of such insignificance so important. Perhaps if the recipe hadn’t changed humanity would have had an easier recovery.

The scientific community at a complete loss for any feasible or actually listenable theory began looking to the fringes of realistic thought.
“Possibly,” said some, “this is an example of some as yet unseen phenomena related to quantum mechanics; in this case all the particles that make (made) up ketchup were immediately moved to another place in the universe.” However, tomatoes, tomato concentrate, vinegar, high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, salt, ‘spice’, onion powder, and ‘natural flavoring’ (a.k.a.: the ingredients that Heinz uses to make “ketchup") were not affected except when combined in the final form of ketchup.

The following month showed an even higher trend toward crime, violence, suicide, alcohol consumption, drug abuse, and all forms of 'destructive behavior’ as the world tried to cope with the true horror:
The recipe change.
When the ingredients, no matter the minor variations between recipes, were combined in their normal fashion what was produced was not ketchup but something seemingly more like crude oil. This flavorless black liquid, which was quickly said to be lightly toxic, affecting the central nervous system and brain with seizures, then paralysis and coma in extreme doses was immediately subjected to every type of testing available, with no real result, even it’s chemical makeup could not be explained exactly. It seemed this black liquid was not of this planet. It had no apparent uses, was as mysterious as it was black, with no possible explanation for it or how the same ingredients used in so many things, when combined to form ketchup created this strange and somewhat harmful, though essentially inert, liquid. This substance and it’s formation (which can be made at home though is not advised) is still perhaps the hottest topic among men of science, even with all that has happened since. 
The favored explanation among lay people (especially front of house restaurant staff) is that a server in Boston, Massachusetts wished ketchup out of existence with her pure hate for the ‘evil red substance’. Maybe she exists, or maybe it was the collective will of all restaurant workers that removed ketchup from the universe. The completely baffling nature of the anomaly are rivaled only by what has occurred after, though those events seem somewhat predictable after the absurdity of all ketchup disappearing forever...

The Man From Montevideo

              A boy and a girl played on the rug in the sitting room. There was no need for a fire. Outside the city calmed as the lights went out. The mother of the two well dressed handsome children tapped her finger on the tabletop. The household staff sat by quietly while dinner grew cold on the plates.

              “Another maté, sir?”

              Marcos didn’t want another maté nor another café. The aftertaste in his mouth made vomit seem likely. The streetcorner moved crowded with carts and horses and pedestrians moving by on a million errands, all going somewhere in particular. The coins on the edge of the table confused him. Marcos got up and walked West. The sun is unknowingly merciless; sweat filled the creases in his shirt. He took his sport coat off still walking.

              Late afternoon Marcos was at the outer edge of Montevideo.

              Some time in the morning Marcos woke on the outskirts of the village Fray Bentos a few less coins in his pocket. The Uruguay river moved near him, strong and beautiful. He felt strong and beautiful, and damp. The dew had wetted his clothing and hair. He waded in. He began to swim. He had not swam against a current like this since boyhood. He remembered the fear in him so small against the water. He did not fear now.

              The gaucho called him ‘Montevideo’ again. Marcos spat on the floor. He looked at the spit, bubbly little puddle on the wood. Why had he spit? He brought his eyes back to the dirty man at the table. The man was standing, head toward him, arms back, with a horrid face.

              “I like your pretty clothes, Montevideo.” Marcos did not respond. The bartender, fat where he should be thin and thin where should be fat placed a knife down next to Marcos’ glass.

              “Outside,” quietly from the bartender.

              “Come now, Montevideo. My horse can wear your pretty clothes when you’re dead.” The man’s friends laughed and slapped the table again and again. Marcos did not hesitate. He took the knife and drained the glass. The man with the horrible face, scarred and ugly, unsheathed and raised his knife.

              “OUTSIDE,” shouted from the bartender. Marcos showed the door with his knife hand. The man moved facing Marcos, wrapping his poncho on his arm as he did. He went into the dark. Marcos walked toward the door. The bartender stopped him with his fat hand. He took Marcos’ sport coat and wrapped it for him, like the gaucho did. Marcos drunk(?) walked out into the dark to fight in the corona of a lantern. The bartender stood at the door with the kitchen’s cleaver. The ugly guacho’s two friends remained at the table. They heard a shout, a laugh, and feet shuffling dirt.

              Marcos entered. The two men sat down and finished their wine. Marcos’ bled to the tips of his fingers, no farther. He sat down. The bartender poured him a wine.

              The man from Montevideo scratched his beard. Atop a horse you can see everything, more than from a tall building. You look all around you. The men below you are just that, below you. From the Uruguay river he’d walked and swam to the first man he killed. He took the man’s horse and poncho. He let out toward Cordoba.

              Six months led him not to the life of a gaucho. Childhood gaucho stories were not this. He was a thief, a robber, a murderer. All day he was satisfied, fantastic when drunk, miserably so with women.

              Six men rode behind him. They shared the fire, not much else. Each man gave part of what he took, which the man from Montevideo usually left where it lay. The men picked the things back up for themselves. He took women and wine always, not much more than that. Tonight he took little of the roast goat and drank most of the wine. Always taciturn until the wine struck him, then he told jokes and talked of fortunes.

              A year put twenty men behind him, his reputation numbered them fifty. Bandits. He’d raped across most of Argentina, murdered and burned and stolen more than an invading army. He’d killed twenty men wearing national colors, five of his men looking for glory in fair combat. The men talked of more women and more food and more coin and paper in their pockets. The men had desires; the man from Montevideo quietly provided.

              Macedonio was the man close to the throne on the horse. Large, cordial, and ruthless. The man from Montevideo now told his jokes only to him.

              The last night, Macedonio, glowing with wine and excitement asked cordially and quietly the man from Montevideo’s name. The man from Montevideo paled.

              “I am Marcos Garcia. It has become dark and I have drank of too much wine. My wife and children sit by the table while my dinner grows cold. I have not seen them in a year. Macedonio,” he laughed a little at this point, “I had forgotten it all. One Maté at lunch and I forgot everything.” The man from Montevideo laughed again, and then quieted. “Macedonio, I am leaving. Thank you for being a friend to me. Those outside will listen to you now as you have listened to me. I have remembered myself. I am not this man you have followed. You are not the man who has followed. I will be leaving now.”

              Macedonio sat stunned with his cup in hand. Never had the man from Montevideo spoken this much at once. Never had he said anything like this. He couldn’t rise as the man now known as Marcos Garcia exited the tent. Macedonio did not follow until the sound of the horse was gone. The camp was silent, waiting. He slowly left the tent.

              “Go back to your homes. We had all forgotten.” The men sat dumbfounded. Macedonio mounted his horse and rode south to Buenos Aires. Slowly, one after another the men mounted horses and left in all directions, speaking to themselves in exasperation and relief and fear.

              Marcos came to the Uruguay river. He patted his horse on the neck, then hard on the flanks. He was alone. It was morning again. The river moved the same as the year before. But he was afraid now. The water was cold. His feet never felt the other bank.

              The staff cleared away his plate..

HOUSEFIRE

http://housefirebooks.com/best-friends-forever-fiction-winn-locke/


My micro piece published by HOUSEFIRE in January.

Sometimes Something-Just as That Place’s Pizza-a Chinese Poem

              Two sisters, one British accent. I met the elder, Brunette, once before on Halloween. She wore a slutty maid costume. She left it on when we had sex. I met the younger, Blonde, just that night. A crowd of us were in the kitchen of a friend’s parents. Several of us were sitting around the island, drinking and laughing. Out of view, under the countertop I was secretly holding Blonde’s hand. She was far and away the prettier of the two, and her hands were very soft. I kissed her unexpectedly outside.

              They both came back to my mom’s house with me, to sleep there. I was hoping to unmake the bed with both of them really, or only the younger. They got to talking that got to texting and secrets got out. Brunette was a little bit upset about me holding little Blonde’s hand and all. I was honest with them though. They weren’t mad. Blonde, to my chagrin, slept in the next room. Brunette slept in my bed, her breath stunk something awful from drinking vodka and grape juice.

             

              Jacques and I were going to the little theater at Coolidge Corner. I’d been excited about this movie for months. This guy has a recurring dream where he’s chased by an exact number of dogs; it’s an animated film about the 1982 invasion of Lebanon. We stopped at some pizza place, lotta little pizza places in Boston. The best one though: Chacho’s, in Mission Hill, and not just because of the cute girl who recognizes me behind the counter. But the pizza at this little spot in Brookline wasn’t so bad. The night felt kind of tense, a real energy out there, at least to me, crowded streets and the city alive right after the sunset. I felt very alive. Then I was sitting in the dark crying my eyes out, trying to be as quiet as possible. People are always being murdered on this planet. I tried not to disturb the other people watching. Afterward, Jacques and I sat in the empty theater for a while, crushed. I felt very alone.

              I was at the two girls’ house, their parents were out of town. I took a long shower hoping they’d come in; they sat in the living room, probably awkwardly. We played with a Ouija board, they said it didn’t work because I didn’t believe. The three of us slept in one bed, I kissed Blonde while underneath the blankets Brunette secretly touched me on my skin. I felt very alone, but it wasn’t so bad.





[Note: This piece is based quite a bit upon a Koan: http://deoxy.org/koan/88]