Hello,
my name
is Carl and I am going to submit one more story because that is what the law
allows according to your ABOUT page. I thank you for any consideration, and hope
you sustain the same harried vision of cataleptic spirituality which this piece
confronts and denies. And outside the canyon-sized acreage of this piece, I left
room for occluded imagery meant to be brought by the reader. Thanks again, I
wish you success with this provocative journal.
my name
is Carl and I am going to submit one more story because that is what the law
allows according to your ABOUT page. I thank you for any consideration, and hope
you sustain the same harried vision of cataleptic spirituality which this piece
confronts and denies. And outside the canyon-sized acreage of this piece, I left
room for occluded imagery meant to be brought by the reader. Thanks again, I
wish you success with this provocative journal.
Eulogy For Barry J. Stanford
I believe it was after the British crusades that one John Wayne Dillinger came to America with nothing but the sleeves on his shirt and ham on rye. The boat was elliptical and smelled of dank retired sea captains with glass elbows and compasses in their leather pockets. He stepped off the docks and onto American fresh pavement, realizing that this place was quite different from his native New York. The clouds were taller and the grass was more addictive. Communities upon communities of dirty homeless men beat each other senseless with blood coated power tools. John took a deep breath as the ship took off once again, to kidnap some more delinquents from city hall. A large dragon greeted him at his door, took his socks and gave him some mashed herbs in a glass porpoise to calm his shattered microphone. Mechanical priests greeted him at the the elevator fully knowing that John Wayne Dillinger was not crippled, nor had a pass. The only thing that rises up this thesis of conjugation is that a similar man has once had such atrocities placed on his mind. It was northern San Francisco, the eighties, a magical time for a time bomb to make margaritas spill from the mouth of an unnamed assailant.
Barry was there and his newspaper reeked of gin and broken glass. So more than likely a new submarine was about to surface in Greenville. A shotglass full of pepper kept a hold on Barry, lingered him closer with its severe sex appeal and spiciness. The only thing Barry hated more than temptation was the fact that temptation was caused by such marvelous factors. Once, in the Windy City, Barry saw an old lady get hit by a bus on her way back from a trip to the nearest grocer, a sinister hindu fellow named Tom. He snatched all the lettuce out of her bag, launched off down the street, only to be caught by fire marshals and be forced to plant a tree. Now, that was a story he used at parties!
Barry was shameless to his conflicts with the law. If you got him started on drug abuse, he would tell you about the time he shoved cocaine into a police officer's jock strap on a dare he received from a lemon. And after twenty more drinks, he would tell you he was Spain. That's why the public loved Barry. They always wanted to hear his lovely anecdotes, and all his lovely poems on pubic hair. He tried writing an essay on the many functions of an edible penis he created, but the manager told him to leave Winn Dixie immediately.
The only way he was satisfied at night was going home to his favorite meal, a fried egg served on a cinderblock. Barry was funny that way. Sure, he would get up in the morning, but he never got down at night. He was like a cat, firm and subtle, always willing to follow the signs of a premature summer. I believe it was Douglas Taft, our eleventh great president, who stated, "this, my friends, is a revolution. This, my friends, is change. This isn't me, I'm not mechanical." Moments later, he was struck in the head with an apple, but not before claiming that Johnny Appleseed was in fact, more probable to be a homosexual than a haygoat.
Barry never forgave Europe for their technology. He said, "if we were REALLY one step ahead of all the clocks, wouldn't we be not only ahead of our time, but ahead of time in general? You can't spell words with letters, man. You need, like, phrases and stuff." Barry was so wise. If he hadn't taken that bullet in the throat for all of us ungrateful youngsters, he wouldn't have had such great ideas. He would be sipping ice cocoa and playing table tennis with a militant in a POW camp in Maine.
He was so unappreciated, mentally challenged men with rakes would knock for hours at his door, pleading unstoppably to use the restroom. Barry wouldn't let them in, though. He would sit on his roof with a paintball gun and pluck them from the top one at a time, until the cries of pain and ignorance were silenced with a frosty cream soda, and the day's troubles were forgotten. "Them retarded folk know what they got, and they know I be scared of their rakes!" More of Barry's wisdom, poured out in a mixture of drool and beer breath. He sat crouched over his card table for hours on end, wondering for the life of him if the two of diamonds was staring at him. He simply cut it in half and set the pieces in my hand. "Take this to Rome. There is an Indian man there, God forbid he should weep the tears of Jamaica!" I stared at Barry and he passed out on my coat. I was perplexed by him.
The only thing that allowed me to sleep was pretending Barry was in my arms, and I knew that everything was all right. Still, Barry was strong. He would allow those poor ill saps to scratch at his door for up to seven and a half hours before knocking them all with those paint filled rocks. I admired that greatly. That must take the persistence of fairies, to sit there and watch "Good morning June" while sipping hot coffee and knowing those "slow" men were clutching those pointy old rakes in their hands in twenty degree fahrenheit weather.
I used to find Barry kind of transparent, but then he started reading the torah in his bath tub and now he can speak Norweigan without moving his tongue. My only concern with this was that Barry can swallow a full orange without blinking. How long can he possibly hold off before turning to grapefruits and synapses to heat his fruit passion of forbidden sensuousness? Barry told me once some other time that, "a great reason to shoot retarded men with paintball guns is personal entertainment." I took his word for it. I would take his word for it, even if he told me some cockamamie story about the pope being old.
I went to the park one day, deciding that if paintball guns were fun on the retarded, then a nine millimeter on a homeless man must be ten times as fun. After explaining to the police officers that he was homeless, therefore he had no right to live, I was treated to a free lunch at the ritz. Barry always said, "the ritz isn't just great for the atmosphere. Their crackers are to die for." So here I stand, poised over my dilemma, a cracker in one hand and a knife in the other. I took a bite of the knife, and rubbed the cracker along my throat. That is the only reason I am still alive today.
Barry said to me on the phone once, "failure is the thing that happens when you do not succeed." I always took that at heart, and my own opinion was that success is overrated. We all win a little, but the truth is, no one really wins. We all just create trophies for useless talents. Barry lived the hard way. He wasn't what you would call a "gentleman," a "winner," a "soldier," or even a "bum." Barry outlived all those titles. The only thing that kept the mittens on him was the handle of the gun being so awfully cold the night he put it in his mouth and ended his life. We all live in the fast lane every now and then, but Barry wasn't even on the highway. He was in an airplane, looking down on the highway we're stuck on. Barry was on another level, and we shunned him for it. We're not animals, no, but Barry was convinced we had gorilla hearts in us. Maybe that's why he ended it so shortly, to make sure we were all pure before he went. I'm not his friend, I met him at a bus stop two days ago, but Barry had a hold on me. Just like mankind. We mock what we don't understand, then we take it away as soon as it offers us money. Well, shame to democrats, because Barry was the one ship that sailed before dawn.
thEnd
Barry was there and his newspaper reeked of gin and broken glass. So more than likely a new submarine was about to surface in Greenville. A shotglass full of pepper kept a hold on Barry, lingered him closer with its severe sex appeal and spiciness. The only thing Barry hated more than temptation was the fact that temptation was caused by such marvelous factors. Once, in the Windy City, Barry saw an old lady get hit by a bus on her way back from a trip to the nearest grocer, a sinister hindu fellow named Tom. He snatched all the lettuce out of her bag, launched off down the street, only to be caught by fire marshals and be forced to plant a tree. Now, that was a story he used at parties!
Barry was shameless to his conflicts with the law. If you got him started on drug abuse, he would tell you about the time he shoved cocaine into a police officer's jock strap on a dare he received from a lemon. And after twenty more drinks, he would tell you he was Spain. That's why the public loved Barry. They always wanted to hear his lovely anecdotes, and all his lovely poems on pubic hair. He tried writing an essay on the many functions of an edible penis he created, but the manager told him to leave Winn Dixie immediately.
The only way he was satisfied at night was going home to his favorite meal, a fried egg served on a cinderblock. Barry was funny that way. Sure, he would get up in the morning, but he never got down at night. He was like a cat, firm and subtle, always willing to follow the signs of a premature summer. I believe it was Douglas Taft, our eleventh great president, who stated, "this, my friends, is a revolution. This, my friends, is change. This isn't me, I'm not mechanical." Moments later, he was struck in the head with an apple, but not before claiming that Johnny Appleseed was in fact, more probable to be a homosexual than a haygoat.
Barry never forgave Europe for their technology. He said, "if we were REALLY one step ahead of all the clocks, wouldn't we be not only ahead of our time, but ahead of time in general? You can't spell words with letters, man. You need, like, phrases and stuff." Barry was so wise. If he hadn't taken that bullet in the throat for all of us ungrateful youngsters, he wouldn't have had such great ideas. He would be sipping ice cocoa and playing table tennis with a militant in a POW camp in Maine.
He was so unappreciated, mentally challenged men with rakes would knock for hours at his door, pleading unstoppably to use the restroom. Barry wouldn't let them in, though. He would sit on his roof with a paintball gun and pluck them from the top one at a time, until the cries of pain and ignorance were silenced with a frosty cream soda, and the day's troubles were forgotten. "Them retarded folk know what they got, and they know I be scared of their rakes!" More of Barry's wisdom, poured out in a mixture of drool and beer breath. He sat crouched over his card table for hours on end, wondering for the life of him if the two of diamonds was staring at him. He simply cut it in half and set the pieces in my hand. "Take this to Rome. There is an Indian man there, God forbid he should weep the tears of Jamaica!" I stared at Barry and he passed out on my coat. I was perplexed by him.
The only thing that allowed me to sleep was pretending Barry was in my arms, and I knew that everything was all right. Still, Barry was strong. He would allow those poor ill saps to scratch at his door for up to seven and a half hours before knocking them all with those paint filled rocks. I admired that greatly. That must take the persistence of fairies, to sit there and watch "Good morning June" while sipping hot coffee and knowing those "slow" men were clutching those pointy old rakes in their hands in twenty degree fahrenheit weather.
I used to find Barry kind of transparent, but then he started reading the torah in his bath tub and now he can speak Norweigan without moving his tongue. My only concern with this was that Barry can swallow a full orange without blinking. How long can he possibly hold off before turning to grapefruits and synapses to heat his fruit passion of forbidden sensuousness? Barry told me once some other time that, "a great reason to shoot retarded men with paintball guns is personal entertainment." I took his word for it. I would take his word for it, even if he told me some cockamamie story about the pope being old.
I went to the park one day, deciding that if paintball guns were fun on the retarded, then a nine millimeter on a homeless man must be ten times as fun. After explaining to the police officers that he was homeless, therefore he had no right to live, I was treated to a free lunch at the ritz. Barry always said, "the ritz isn't just great for the atmosphere. Their crackers are to die for." So here I stand, poised over my dilemma, a cracker in one hand and a knife in the other. I took a bite of the knife, and rubbed the cracker along my throat. That is the only reason I am still alive today.
Barry said to me on the phone once, "failure is the thing that happens when you do not succeed." I always took that at heart, and my own opinion was that success is overrated. We all win a little, but the truth is, no one really wins. We all just create trophies for useless talents. Barry lived the hard way. He wasn't what you would call a "gentleman," a "winner," a "soldier," or even a "bum." Barry outlived all those titles. The only thing that kept the mittens on him was the handle of the gun being so awfully cold the night he put it in his mouth and ended his life. We all live in the fast lane every now and then, but Barry wasn't even on the highway. He was in an airplane, looking down on the highway we're stuck on. Barry was on another level, and we shunned him for it. We're not animals, no, but Barry was convinced we had gorilla hearts in us. Maybe that's why he ended it so shortly, to make sure we were all pure before he went. I'm not his friend, I met him at a bus stop two days ago, but Barry had a hold on me. Just like mankind. We mock what we don't understand, then we take it away as soon as it offers us money. Well, shame to democrats, because Barry was the one ship that sailed before dawn.
thEnd