secretly(inside his head)

he rifled bookshelves in peoples homes

in a deliberate attempt to assess if their literary  nonfiction interests

or those tomes that comprise their antilibraries(books unread) might jive with his own

inevitably  it was a fascinating exercise 

outwardly  people might not reflect themselves

or they were exactly who they appeared

he never tired of the inquisition

and no one ever died for perceived inequities

they hadnt been living there very long

just inside a year which coincided with absences for contracts outside the country

yet they had established three separate bookcases along the walls of their livingroom

and per subtle asks he learned they also had a bookcase in their bedroom holding books nearest and dearest them

they divvied their books between shelves by subject matter

                                                                                                biology astronomy science

as for a few blatant outliers

science dominated the largest and tallest bookshelf which stood on the wall that lead into the hallway to their bedroom and bathroom

off the dining area  at the back of a third chair its back to the livingroom  beneath a long picture window  was a low shelf that contained miscellaneous books

on its far left  laid on its side atop commensurately bound books  was a light gray volume

on its spine  written top to bottom so that it could be read as it lay  was Wild Kuche

Wild Kuche arrested him

It took his imagination hostage

--   Wild Cooch

he said absently  and aloud

 

--   Excuse me

--   The book  Wild Cooch . . .

--   Kuche . . .

--   Idve thought thatd make the bedroom stack . . .

--   Its not what you think

--   Please dont correct what I think

This is delicious

This story is better for it

Itll be far far better if we let my imagination remain unhinged  unsatisfied

--   Youll attach my name our names to it

--   Hell no

No proper names or sex                                                                                                                 

Youll simply become He-Who-Has-Wild-Cooch

like a Native Indian name

I have no problem protecting guilty or innocent sources

All I intend to do is drop the title in mixed company and step away as the incited flames and conflagration grows

Youre immaterial

Aint like youre walking around wearing a t-shirt touting Wild Kuche

You couldnt  sorry to say  not that youd fight me on this  pull off a Wild Kuche t-shirt

I could                           

Though for all the wrong reasons

My reputation precedes me

like a crazed ape on a discomforting chain 

Its soiled

Your reputation

on the other hand

is safe with me

Wild(Kuche cringed as he heard it) horses couldnt tear it away from me

Not your name

Not out of me                    

Wild whores . . . I might break

Though typically I do my best not to be aligned or find myself among amidst  or in the comfort of wild whores . . . rooting for truffles . . or Jerusalem chokes .

You can trust me

I think you know that

--   Its Kuche

not cooch

--   Im not picking up the inflection

A cooch is a Kuche is a cooch

 --   I suppose theres no arguing the point

--   None 

--   Call me He-Who-Has-Wild-Cooch

Sunday afternoon,  22  3. 15

1928,  Monday,  30  3. 15

swaddled  hermetically sealed

choke on that

starved

incarcerated

kept

the house denied dreams of dreamers

a turnkey

nothing came in on its Watch

and when something tried to incur inside 

that seedling
that bright fresh white potential  beginning to smile  was plucked from its sleepy loam
its hungry fledgling taproot trailing

                                                         plucked like an offending eye from a soft green skull

Not on Its Watch

it was a stalwart triplex

neatly  handsomely bricked

it hadnt allowed a dream

since it was built in '39

                                       intimidating the rest of its Ballard Block  and herald across

the nooks inlets locks sounds and gulfs of the Seattle Basin

Untold

were the billions of dreams it denied

Happily

0950,  Sunday,  22  3. 15
Happy Boithday, Brother Bob Diego

It was a small store front

among a series of awkward side-by-side bays

retail space

all let by the same uninspired realty and management company

year  after   year    after     year     after      year

either a front or maintained as a legit tax write-off

no matter 

                 business was created to fuck other people

Please  the insult people take  you shouldnt forget  This isnt personal

Its business

                     Gawddamn he loved those businessmen most 

                                                                                                Teeing themselves up

smiling smug   and so  so very pretty

and certain 

on occasion  not frequently  he followed up their business conjecture with

stepping back  standing away 

                                                  momentarily                                                                          

squaring his shoulders to their balls

feet  shoulder width apart  knees slightly bent 

wagging his No. 1 wood
 

                                        where the drawl came from he hadnt the slightest idea

it just sounded so fucking appropriate

--   Nothing personal  Purely business

stepping forward  shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet  he rocked them

he supposed they could take that insult anyway they wanted when they returned from Lalaland

the bullshit they thought theyre entitled to

 

The store front was located at the edge of Old Town  which was desirable  in a one

hundred year old village erected at the crossroads of wagon routes running west to the ocean and east

and El Camino Real  north to south

a historic artery between twenty-one military and religious Spanish Missions

established by Catholic priests of the Franciscan Order to infect Native Indian tribes

every grade school child was taught to memorize and recite those Mission names 

                  

History

             Ah   to be the Victor to write History through their eyes alone

It is how Lies become Fact

     

Old Town  for as long as hed lived there  was constantly being touted for renovation 

in an attempt to reinvigorate the District

                                                                  Old Town was the first cancer cell formed

but it failed to metastasize

and then lost steam over the remaining 20^th Century  dialed down into a maudlin

shitcoloured bedroom community

When the store front opened it was inspiring

he attended the Grand Opening

                                                     he wished its starry-eyed entrepreneur/curator

good fortune  and better luck

he firmly supported the Arts

although he supposed Art  as Beauty   inevitably  was in the eye of the Beholder

                                        

the Art he found displayed on easels and hung from partitions behind its plateglass windows

were less than inviting 

 

over the past year its efforts simmered down into Sex Sells propositions

scantily clad women  underwater  valiantly attempting to impersonate mermaids

believed compleat

                              by their photographer

if compleat mean tail fins fish scales and tits 

                                                                          their tits reflecting off the surfaces belly

he had chosen not to walk near the store for some time

evidently not a fan of merfantasy

Yesterday it was gone

its guts evaporated

its black and green tiled floor strewn with a single paint-spattered aluminum foot ladder

and scraps and tatters of paper like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle never to be pieced together

waiting on the firm minimum-waged hand  and a push broom

 

                                                                                                       providing another ash heap for History

1414,  Saturday,  28  3. 15

1604,  Sunday,  29  3. 15