Lower Extremities

Slot machines spit out glittery tokens,
Reverberating in the air-conditioned afternoon,
They pump in artificial air here,
Blows past my corduroy pants, worn for the occasion
Of the last conference of doctors
Specializing in lower extremities
Cold winds at night on the strip
Empty bottles on the floor
The flight out the next day
The condensation on the wing
The ice in my heart as I write this
On the occasion of my last flight
Before I return
To a New Mexico I’ve never known
In the air above
Its snowy banks and reddish clay
For how long I’ve lived like this I cannot say
But the wind carries me home,
Death comes at the loneliest hour
And at the end of my life
The lower extremities that I know so well
Will fail me in the last row on the last flight out of Vegas
In the year of our lord 2005.

Alfonso Segundo and "El Bocho"

Nat introduced the target like a used car salesman.

“Staring from the left, we have Alfonso Segundo or Alfonso “The Second” if we’re speaking to an exclusively Anglo audience.”

He was speaking to his assistant on the grounds of a hidden terrorist prison camp in the sweaty confines of South Florida.

“Now this guy, he’s got some balls. He embezzled money that Reagan had left over for the Contras, money he siphoned into an off-shore account. He surfaced in Asuncion a few years later, and the moment the trace connected with our boys in Miami, he was ours. Fred thinks this guy could rock the Prime Time news shows, maybe even Meet the Press if we can spring him."

Walking through rows of human cages, with men in orange suits awaiting trial or already convicted, they made their way down to the end of the line, into another corridor of fences. After the third guard accepted another fresh one hundred dollar bill, he closed the gate and admitted the two men into the inner sanctum, reserved for the more despicable criminals and reprobates.

The last guard stood in the immediate center of the cell, which served as a reception area for the last section, the same one that held “El Segundo”.

Nat reached out to the guard, burnt in the sun like the stocky hams that swung like prisoners on the gallows from the market in Alfonso's native Madrid, with a photo and accompanying paperwork, detailing the crimes and sideburns of Alfonso, with four one hundred dollar bills tucked to the underside of the photo, connected by a rubber band.

The eight by ten glossy reflected off of the guard’s Aviator sunglasses, refusing to let in even a scrap of light. The guard stared at the picture and dropped the money as if it was a worthless receipt. His mustache twitched for a moment, anticipating the conflict.

Nat sat down on the lone bench in the tank, adjusting his suit slightly as he stared up at the face of the man who prevented his latest Terrorist superstar from entering the country, even with the customary bribes and detailed paperwork.

“Even with your dirty money and fake bullshit forms, Alfonso still isn’t innocent.”

The guard just stood there, baking in the sun. His tanned forarms guarding the fence behind him, flanked on either side by the presence of two armed guardsman. This guy was the leader, and he didn’t need to carry a weapon.

Nat was troubled by this, but never let it show, for when he was down in the pits, it was better to keep you wits about you, and not lose hope.

Forty million people turned in each week to the shows that Nat’s bosses produced, and he’d be damned if he was going to let some morally upright bureaucrat change that.

“Bribes don’t just come from me your honor; they come from a higher source.”

Nat gesticulated with his index finger to the tower that was ensconced in barbed wire. “There’s no sense in acting like this is the first time you and I have conducted business in this way.”

“Senor, there is no way that I can stare down footage of Alfonso Segundo exchanging half a billion dollars worth of dirty money in Asuncion, a government which I needn’t remind you couldn’t afford a police force to hold back the bloodiest revolution since the country’s recent release from the stranglehold of the last piece of shit dictator that came in full of false promises.”

Nat was getting fidgety. There was no speaking to him, this prick, and he knew that he would have to call up a favor from someone who spoke in clipped speech over forbidden phone lines, a person capable of canceling someone’s life in a matter of syllables. It was time to call in El Bocho.

Twilight on the Oregon Coast

A temperate scene, vague memories of the parsed sky, looking up from the forest floor, at the spaces in between branches, where the sky peeks through before the clouds come.

You stand up, moving slowly back to the house that overlooks the ocean.

Back at the house, you move through each room, feeling the life that has lived there. You try to grab hold of some recollection of what happened in this room, the times shared in that bed, whose imprint can still be seen on the floor.

A gust of wind passes above, and you feel the weight of the loss, right at that moment, like you were too stunned to admit to it before.

And there it is, a small Buddha statue still propped up on the stool in the kitchen, where you now sit, staring out at the sea. With its diurnal nature, you feed off of the energy provided when the tide goes out, then in.

You can see why people move out here, abandon life in the cities, and find solace and peace by the ocean.

But winters were always hard, but this winter will be brutal. Vodka seems to go well with this, ice and Vodka, white walls, listening to the twinkling of the ice cubes.


You feel like a ghost, all throughout this week when she left, still noticing the mark on the wall where your wedding picture once sat, comfortable and secure.

It’s not all bad. There’s a typewriter on your desk (one of the only items of furniture still left in the home) and inside of it is a sheet of ivory paper with fourteen words that describe the way you feel.

Feb. 14th

Christmas and New Years seemed extra festive (if that's even possible, with an almost forced, heavy-handed nature that requires one to be festive.) with the Drive by Truckers posting a free downloadable track off of their forthcoming record, A Blessing and a Curse due out in April.

The track, Feb. 14th, tinkers with the Trucker's traditional sound, eschewing the usual three guitar stomp, and attempts a ballad in the vein of The Replacements, circa Pleased to Meet Me.

In fact, the references to the Replacements are numerous. Not only does Pleased to Meet Me contain "Valentine", but the Replacements former manager, Peter Jesperson, works at the same record label, New West, that will release A Blessing and a Curse.

The band are taking an unusual stance on file-sharing, this time encouraging bloggers and the like to spread it like a wildfire. Let it be done, and let there be rock!

Drive By Truckers - Feb. 14th

Saturday Snippet

Excerpt from The Need to Do Laundry

And now, as the follicles produce silvery stabs of age, the worn out jeans from the nights when we were invisible, out with the boys and laughs and come-hither glances from women. But we are older now, and wiser, and we look at the foolishness of our past and the steady nature of the future, and we can remember when, we were inexperienced, unloved and unkempt.

Early January

I wanted to start earlier, right before the New Year hit, or while it was still taking place. Revelers in the streets of New York City would have their funny little glasses on, waiting for that illuminated ball to perform its anticlimactic act, and I would chronicle it in blog form.

But that didn't happen. I almost got a piece published, until the editor saw it in my blog -this same blog that lies before you- while he was doing research for the same, said piece. Because of this, my days of posting complete pieces are over. (I sent him something completely new, and from scratch.)

The feeling of having to start fresh left me startled. I realized that almost all of my good pieces (save for the two shipwrecked novels-in-progress that haven't been rescued yet) exist here in this blog for the world to see.

I had thought, in good faith, that this was the best way to showcase my work to my constituency. In the process, I had whittled my garrison of tales down to almost nothing. It was exciting and depressing all at the same time.

It’s like this. I write these pieces for myself, but I really enjoy writing them when I know someone I know will be reading them, preferably in the immediate future. Take that away, and I am not left with the same passions I had before, and left uncertain as to the possibility that anyone beyond a disgruntled editor will view my verbose proceedings.

It's a conundrum I'm bound to figure out over time. Until then, this blog will focus more on the musical side, the brief and very brief remarks, notes, scribbles and testaments of faith that one day all of this will be for the best.

Regards,

Adam Strong
kronski.com