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...what you don't know...you don't know...

Excerpt from "About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter" from The Roominghouse Magrigals by Charles Bukowski

“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and

this guy walks in. a salesman. you knowhow they talk. drove up in this newcar. talked about his vacation. said he went toFrisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot whowrote it. now this guy is 54 yearsold. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s onlyopera.’ and then I toldhim: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ heasked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old andyou don’t know anything!’”

Mine.

"Her face is a knife.  It's beautiful, sleek.  But it cuts to the core, 'She'd never have me.'  Her eyes did not have to belie the disinterest."

"You don't know that"

I point at my friend's chest as if hitting the top of a counter on a broken deal, "I do.  That's what kills me: how fast that decision is made.  Give me the benefit of a few seconds."  Again with the finger, "Not even one."

"I keep telling you: you come off with a weird vibe."

"A vibe?  How do I stop a vibe Paul.  I was born with this vibe Paul."  I mimicked an ages old conversation in my twenties.  I got the intended effect.

"You can act."

"I can't act."

"Everyone can act." 

"You want to tell that to Hollywood?  You think everyone can act?"

"You're smart."

"Oh, fat good it does me."

"You write.  Say something poetic."

I grew pensive and leaned into the bar to tip back drink no. 5.  I stay in a lane.  It was called a Golden Lion.  Vodka, calamansi, passion fruit and yuzu.  Potent.  Citrus cocktails work for me.  You add in calamansi, a very Filipino thing to do, and I'm bought and sold.  Damn these are strong.

"Paul, as sure as I'm tottering here right now, I don't believe a poem got a man anything in life."

He pursed his lips.  "Ah ha!"

"Drink your drink Jack."

Boy did I.

...

recipe ~ Blueberry Syrup (5 cups)

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#recipe Blueberry Syrup at facebook.com/jack.edwards.186

A post shared by Jack Edwards (@edwardianjackal) on Sep 17, 2019 at 4:55pm PDT

24 oz of blueberries, 2 cups of filtered water, 1.5 cups of sugar, 1/2 cup of honey, 1/2 cup of lemon juice ~~ add all into large pot and bring to simmer, stirring constantly, cook until reduced, and liquid is syrupy and dark; strain to separate pulp from syrup, keep pulp for topping in separate container;

recipe ~ Spicy Mediterranean Chicken (serves 8)

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#recipe Mediterranean Chicken at facebook.com/jack.edwards.186

A post shared by Jack Edwards (@edwardianjackal) on Sep 17, 2019 at 4:30pm PDT

 x8 chicken thighs, x1.5 red onions sliced, x1 bulb of garlic, fresh parsley, x2 cans of 28 oz tomatos (cubed), container of dried apricots ~ spice (1/2 on chicken before fry, 1/2 after mixed): 2 tbs cinnamon, 2.5 tbs coriander, 2.5 red chili flakes, 2 tbs whole black pepper, 2.5 curcuma (or curry spice), 2 tbs salt, 2 tbs cumin, 1 tbs pepper ~ ~ Over open charcoal grill; apply 1/2 spice to dried chicken, fry; remove chicken, in same oil, cook onion and garlic until tender, remove; scald both cans of tomatos in the same pan, stirring with slight reduction; put all ingredient into foil pan on grill, add apricots, mix well, add remaining 1/2 spice and continue to cook to desired consistency; add parsley at end; serve with rice;

...(next) Chambersburg, Trenton, 1994...

He made more than a few switchbacks that even he got turned around.  The light of day dithered to dusk.  I need distance.  He kept on the 3, but cut north to the 252.  He had his bearings now.  Three hours and no sign of being followed.  He remembered little of the drive - only the color and makes of cars to make sure none of them were too familiar over time.

West 30.  He stopped before entering Malvern on a small stretch of road, lined by trees.  The sky had turned purple, but with the lights off, you could see nothing.  He stretched out his hands and pulled his seat back.  It was quiet enough, he saw no one for twenty minutes.  The cicadas were an ever-present buzz.  Dark came and Rook passed out.

...

He woke up with a hunger headache.  Gas.  Food.  He had barely enough for both.  He topped off at the first chain gas station he could find.  They won't care about me, not ask questions.  They didn't.  He wanted to buy a map but that would be a tip-off.  He resisted the urge and took a paper placemat from the Rollo's Diner instead.

After he hit the head, he got right out of the little town he didn't know the name of.

Can't stay in Ohio, Mauro has reach out that this way.  He was in league with another boss out this way - he remembered him talking about some play in Athens and in Columbus.

Kentucky.  The placemat was a cartoonish estimation of Rollo's locations in the area.  Lexington was one.  I'll find a town near there...Winchester.  Get a job washing dishes, live in the car for a time.

He eventually found the 68, used the rest of his cash but for 7 bucks for gas and lunch.  He swung through Lexington, double-backed on the 60 and toward Winchester.  In Colby, he stopped the car, pulled the plates and through them in a gully among a pile of floating trash.  He checked the car for anything distinguishing, straightened out his clothes and headed into town.

...

Rook found quickly that Winchester had two main strips - N Main and N Maple.  He rode down both, nonchalantly, keeping his eyes open for a Help Wanted sign.  Folks weren't too interested in him, which was a good sign.  If they were, best get out of Dodge.

A little cafe on Broadway needed a dishwasher.

He found an abandoned house near the N Main, parked in a patch of overbrush and hoofed it back to the strip.  The town was mostly red brick, two story shops and Pam's Cafe was no exception.  He smiled and asked the waitress about the job.

"Well, hon, they're gonna need you right away - you good with that?"

"I just got into town and looking to put down some roots - I can work now if you want."

"Clark?"  A chubby bald man came around the corner with a carafe of coffee, he did not look trusting at all.  Doesn't matter, just get the gig and I'll work hard.  Plus working at a cafe will be a steady supply of leftovers.  Rook explained the situation to Clark.

"You ain't trouble are you?"

"No sir - I was working for a spell out in Parkersburg, chain restaurant called Rollo's."

"I know Rollo's."

"They were outfitting the place with new refrigeration units, you know the industrial GE ones from last year's show?  Well, they couldn't keep us through the summer while it was under construction, so I figured I'd come out to Kentucky before the winter."

"Change of scenery?"

"I had some distant cousins out this way, living in Lexington, figured I'd try to set some roots here for a while."

"What's their names?"

"The Browns.  Harold, Jenny...like I said, they were distant but I don't have any other family."

"Aight then, Rich Brown...going ahead and start work tonight.  No funny business because I'm watching."

"Yes, sir."

Rook rolled up his sleeves, put in a six-hour until the Broadway Cafe closed.  Washing dishes was soothing, he completely forgot about his cares.  The radio station played country, I never really listened to this before.  Not bad.

"Good work Rich, we open at 6:00a tomorrow, be here ten minutes before."

"Yes, sir."  Clark opened the register and gave him 15.

"You stick around Rich, we can get you some tips as well."

...

Rook went back to the car exhausted.  I'll get a room tomorrow.  Wash up.  Wash my clothes.

The cicadas had followed him, buzzing in the darkness of Kentucky.

...

...when it's over...27aug19...

Resolve comes and sits coldly upon one's chest.
Inevitable.  Sad nonetheless.
The cathedrals were pinnacles of the ecstasies
Breaths both day and night in thought of you
What could have.  What was never.
Yet below the lofts of those countless towers rests
the city.  Its brightly colored squares and decorated streets.
I saw daylight dance upon deep red sakura, happily shifting in the ocean's breeze.
The trills of children and joyous animals in play.
Lovers holding hands in quiet contemplation
Holding not only hands but breath and hope
A quantum of surrender.
A city held in a moment suspended in quiet joy.
Expressed to unrelenting stone
Unrecognized to me now.

Ruins far too friendly a word
Even smoke dissipates.
Cruel dispassion, mechanistic precision
Razed it well.
The only lofty throes are the shadows reaching skyward
Over the dark gloss of nothing.
I lament it.  And nothing can be remembered for nothing ever was.
As you say.

The sun darkened.
A red fissure split the sky.
No screams at was inevitable.
The towers fell, the city crumpled
Like paper
The memories lost
And must shuffle be.

The Belle of the River...short exercise_30jun19

The triumphs of erect stone, molded in the likeness of their creator.  Pinned against the clouds, raised on colonnades each.  To enhance their own loftiness, they point to above.  All told, 'do not think of the firmament below, it is nothing compared to the spaces above'.

Agreed.  The human mind has its limitations and assuredly its self-importance.  Myself, as lowly as I am, still am victim to the same.

My hands sweat and I shift my kit of oils and canvas to the other.  I would relieve myself of my woolen jacket, but I have not formally asked anything of the gardens and I am still desperate to find the Head Gardener.  A fellow I'm told is Michaels.  I've no idea what he looks like, but I suspect I would find him nearer the estate.

The Villa Liatris had survived the [Civil] War, nestled on a bend of the Mississippi near Ama.  It had a rare garden of contemporaneous European varieties of Lady Slippers, with yellow and purple hues that I'm told are quite unique and not easily reproduced in oil.

I had not come across them yet as I tracked across one side of the garden and to the other.  An ominous green house had stretched perpendicular to the main house, but I dare not enter without Michaels.

Frustrated at the endeavor and the heat, I found the shade of a cypress that was flanked with thick brush, creating an unnatural form of shade and coolness.  I could always find one no matter what backwood forest I find myself.  I sat and allowed myself to cool.  Sweat and humidity weighed my suit down.

"Sir?"  The call of southern hospitality.  It was a young voice.

I smiled before I opened my eyes, "Forgive a man some shade, son.  It is awfully warm out today and I have exhausted myself on effort of finding Mr. Michaels."

"Mr. Michaels, sir?  The Head Gardner?"

"That's him."

"Let me fetch him for you."  The boy ran off behind the arboretum.  I committed myself to the spot until he showed up.  In some time, the boy walked out with an older man in a light white long shirt.  I stood up and straightened out.

We shook hands.  "What can we do for you Mr. --?"

"Mr. Michaels, I simply wanted to ask for your permission to mix some oils and a bit of canvas painting.  I hear tell that the Lady Slippers are available this time of year.  I'm particular for the yellow and purple 'uns."

"Oils?"

"Painting.  See sir I work as an illustrator for the Post.  They are doing a fall piece for summer flowers.  I guess for folks hearkening back on the weather.  They gave me a stipend for your time to sit and paint for a day or two.  That is, if you are agreeable."

"Well, son, I t'ain't ne'er hear of such a thing, but as long as you are just painting them and not disturbing them I don't see no harm."

"Won't touch them.  May I pay you or the manor for the privilege?"

"Wouldn't hear of it.  We are happy for'n your interest.  Just put in where you seen it - we do have tours come through here and the Lady is keen on it.  Maybe send us a copy?"

"Sir, I'll send you three and you'll get all sorts of credit."

With that Michaels took me to another section of the garden I wouldn't have found.  It intersects under a portion of where the trellis of the arboretum spans to the Manor, it's quite beautiful with all sorts of orchids lining the walk-way.  Just enough sun is good enough.

And there they were, in full bloom.  I was eager now to take off my jacket, oblige myself on some cool tea (no cubes, they hadn't any electricity), and a stool.

I made two first runs on the yellow and the purple, making swaths from the corner to the center - arriving at a fair conclusion.  I will do the second one on my visit.  I put the color on my finger and put it near the flower.

"Close?"

"Colors change with light.  Today is a bit cloudy, but hot.  Tomorrow may be different.  I'll get it close it enough."  With that, I took my thin charcoals and sketched their forms.

Whistle.  "I t'ain't e'er seen one draw that quickly afore!"

I had what I needed even I didn't come back.  But I like the place and the tea is fine.

"See you tomorrow!"

...

As I walked off the estate with tools in tow and my jacket hung off my shoulder, I sported a young belle on the walkway.  She was peculiarly out of place for the time.  I guessed it was a costume ball of some kind.  She was absolutely perfect in every way.  Flawless skin, proud cheekbones, glimmering green eyes and fiery dark red hair.  She walked with pride, with back as straight as the statues I had just left.

"Sir."

"Miss."  I wanted to pull her aside for even a second, but her gait was such I didn't expect to stop her.  She did keep me in her periphery for the slightest of seconds before moving on.

I paused.  I couldn't help watching her walk away.  As a lady should, she did not turn around once.  God bless her.

Another reason to show up tomorrow.
...

...stares...16jun19...

There is no regalia in the sun light, but pomp
As you may see me
Yet I may see differently in my stare

Fantastic things
Star fields of brilliant color
That paint the vivid fields of night
Aback the costumed trees that seemingly dance
Stretching up, undulating to the rhythmic wind

Creatures that bray and chortle
in musical choir
a chorus you've yet to hear
(but even now you may delight to think what it may be)
Night birds in ancient song
lull us to simplest pleasures

By the shore
of painted waters
perhaps you are there
with languid line
your voluminous hair
and soft nape
drape to a soft arm
that, with lighted touch,
upon the merry streams
as if keys
or chords

Forgive my stare then
It may not what you think it be

Forgive want
As it may be just a memory
that can only be
in reverie

Mistake it not
for anything that
may be truth
as what a
heart's beat
may only be.

Es lässt sich nicht lesen...10jun19

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. - La Bruyere

"The Man of the Crowd" - Edgar Allen Poe

"Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.  Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a [burden] so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave."

Furtive.  That was the word the ghost of Samuel Burbage struggled for as he floated about the bed of Lawrence Count, age 72, New Shoreham RI.  Lawrence here has a furtive look about his eyes.  It was pitch in the room, but a ghost can see everything.  It was an attribute only available to the dead.  It was once a specialty to spirits, but the technology age did a great injustice with the invention of night mode.  Not that they can see everything.  Old Saint Michael had told Burbage over a game of bridge, "They may try to see the weakest of a light spectrum, but they'll never be able to capture feelings."  Burbage and a cohort from old Maryland, Tanner, watched Saint Michael closely.  "Watch how he counts the multipliers: I think he mixes clubs for spades."

Lawrence had *the* glow.  A guilty man.  A man who has to live with himself everyday.  He hates the world because he doesn't operate within it.  He cannot amend himself to life, so he makes mistakes.  He stacks guilt atop missed opportunities atop minor indiscretions.  He thinks he prays.  "He prays only to himself, he knows no GOD."  Saint Michael pointed him out and through the fog of miasma came to Lawrence.

"Why do we do this, Arch Angel?"

"All we can do is try Burbage.  If Tanner did haunt you, and you didn't repent, well, you wouldn't be here to do the same."

"This isn't a reward, Michael."

"Didn't say it was Burbage.  But it is the RIGHT thing to do."

So Burbage came to the creeping hour half-heartedly.  As Lawrence finished thoughts on the day's events, then a binge through a half-baked series on a streaming service, he started for bed.  Lawrence knew Burbage was there, even just a little, because the lights would come up in a blaze to make the trek up the stairs and down the hall.  Oh, he acted brave, but I could see the gait change, the odd periphery glances.  Burbage put his hands on Lawrence's back and he could feel him shiver.

Lawrence would 'read' before bed (if you catch my drift men) which Burbage was thankfully pulled from.  "Yes, we can see it...but, do you want to see?"  The answer 19 times out of 20 'no'.  The others were reassessed, you see.

Then the lights would go out and Burbage would whisper in Lawrence's ear, "Fluffernutter, fluffernutter."  Use words that make no sense to the living.  They hate that.  Except for fans of Sid Caesar.  Use the word 'sausage' then.  [Jonas Sinkletter was a grand writer of the Guide.]

Lawrence would grind himself into his blankets.  Burbage could sense it all in his glow: Count treated others as 'below' him, although the dissonance in that attitude is weighed in their own trappings.  Count had no real friends.  He had a wife that left him, running off with Anyman ages ago.  (Anyman had an interest and that was all that was needed.)  Count collected things and we know where that leads.  In the end Lawrence Count had little, so he expressed it in an ego so fragile it could balloon and break several times in the course of a day.  And so late in life to boot.

"Fluffernutter, dummy."


"It's not too late, Michael?"

"I didn't say that, Burbage.  You have to do what you can.  They make the choice."

"Fluffernutter, idiot."

"I'm not being graded, Michael?"

"You're already here, Burbage."

"Good.  I can't say I'm particularly good at this."

"Burbage."

"Fluffernutter."

...

The new day came and Burbage was long gone: the twilight and witching hour passed.  Lawrence Count noted his silliness at the nightly fear again.  But true rest escaped him and it did gnaw, even just a little.

Remembering the world is a bunch of idiots gave him the energy to start his day anew.

...

short: Chambersburg, Trenton, 1994

Rook rolled a gum wrapper between his right thumb and forefinger, over and again.  The Juicy Fruit had lost its flavor long before.  It was like chewing Silly Putty.  It's keeping me warm though.

He shifted on the bench at the corner of Hamilton and Chestnut.  Columbus Park couldn't be emptier.  A cold Saturday morning like this.  I stick out like a boombots.  He pulled his wool coat over his leg, he continuously shook it off.

From here, Rook could see all points.  But the boss wanted him to keep an eye out on the Pharmacy.  

"This time of morning?"  Mauro answered with a scowl.  He was being questioned dummy.  Rook quickly followed with, "I got it."

He measured the next question, "What am I looking for?"

Mauro opened a drawer and Rook instinctively shifted back, a plastic bag packed full with script bottles.  He sat back and turned his head to Chuck.

"What time does the owner come in?  We know they open at ten on Saturday, but maybe the doctor comes in earlier.  Is it even the owner that opens up?  Does he come alone?"  Chuck gave him a $50.  "Don't get picked up is all.  Don't look like a disgraziat."

I got here way to early.  His watch had 8:23.  I gotta sit here another hour?

Rook had stopped smoking a year ago.  Cold turkey.  He had a rough couple of weeks after that, made it up with fries.  "Time to quit smoking, ah."  It would be perfect now.  Calms the nerves.  It's forty degrees, no wind.  Perfect drag and then get a coffee.

Twenty minutes went by.  Something ain't right.  It was too quiet.  He scanned all points again.  Stood up and walked over to use the trees right on the corner as cover.  Nothing.  But not a good nothing.  A nothing like something was going to go down.

He left the car three blocks over, like he was told.

"You know what he should do?"  Mauro put the bag of bottles away.  "He should sit in the park, the one across the street."

"Yeah, maybe keep your car a few blocks down though."  Mauro snapped his fingers and agreed.

His chewing slowed.  It's a fix.  Rook spit the gum out and scanned the walk back toward his car.

"Shit."  Mauro set him up.  Fifty dollars.  He saw the grill about a block down from the Pharmacy, a cruiser grill shining in the sun.

Rook crossed the street toward the Pharmacy, just as the cruiser pulled out at the same time.  He broke into a run, making a hard turn around the building, jumped over a small fence and through an alley to the other side.

Think.  Can't go back to the car, they'll have another car waiting there.  Maybe.  Chuck had him out in the open, so they wouldn't have thought about the car.  Car.  His run broke wide and he met the street again.  He hadn't run that fast since middle school.

The car was not watched, at least by what he could see.  Stay or take off?  He started the car, did a 'u' and headed south toward Clinton.  If I can get to Broad I can lay low for a while.

Mauro.  He gave him up.  He meandered purposefully down the streets, making his own switchbacks, but each time trying to get to Clinton.  He thought he saw pulotti once, but going cross.

He made Clinton and then Broad, he lined the speed limit but didn't go a mile above.  Can't go back home for a while.  Have to go West or Upstate.  Rook figured to put 20 miles north until he had to get gas.  Mauro.  What do I do about him?

...

caustic homage (draft): 02feb19

A hotel room is a dangerous place
when you are all by your lonesome
Don't it feel like a cell?
esp. when the warmth of a woman has escaped it
The smell of her on the sheets
fades as the night wears on and
you wonder if she were ever there.

Picaresque restaurants close and the last
of the lonely make their way into the night
The servers are eager to hit the club 
So dishes are piled in the sink
to the anger of the breakfast shift.
The crew hold on to one another as they
head off singing a hackneyed 
"Comme d'habitude".

Memories of only the grandest of failure
despite the storied truth
reminesce in the smells of those that came before
and thought the same thing
when they lay in the bed
with a Lark on their lips
and nothing on the TV set
in a town small as this.

The boarders next door stop using the sink
And the entirety of the floor grows quiet
but the frequency hum
of televisions left to keep company

Tomorrow looks to be an unwritten failure
should we meet it
And there's the question again
again as fresh as the first time.

And so it is

Comme d'habitude je vais sourire
Comme d'habitude je vais même rire
Comme d'habitude, enfin je vais vivre

...

Philip Sidney's "Astrophil and Stella" c1580

19.

On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same?
When most I glory, then I feel most shame:
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.


My best wits still their own disgrace invent:
My very ink turns straight to Stella's name;
And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame,
Avise themselves that they are vainly spent.

Penelope Devereux c1575

For though she pass all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall?
Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,

And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit:
"Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit."

...

A chord strike and I awake
"Penelope!"
Sunlight tendrils drape her face in my dream
My heart has swelled and I'm defeated
Surrendered to her and all to her
The dream ends and the cold answer is given
Realizing in each dream
Her eyes never meet mine
It is my love to own

Unrequited to the last.

...waiting to hibernate...06jan19

intermittent rain

followed by the sun some
grey puddles
wet grass
deep pockets at Boisseranc
cut the turf
a layer of ready mud


neath yellow scrag
missing it
'A long while sick, supposed.'
he didn't look from the shadowed lap
his wiry face
his eyes closed
guilty I say


mine come in cotton shirts
and the smell of Canoe
never tugging on attention
but if I look they are
unencumbered
reminiscent

breathing deep

always there

other spirits come as lighted orbs

their chests raise and fall

but they mock 

the action

mindless

rote

lost

...

National Novel Writing Month 2018: Ashes of Parnassus

Synopsis

The decadence of the Chrome Age collapsed upon its own hubris, leaving the Worlds in ruins.  The Central government relinquished control to the state-worlds in the chaos.  Then on the verge of stability, the Ubiquity ravaged all.  Anything made with metal, all tech, broke their molecular bonds.  Humankind plunged into a pre-Bronze Age.

Space craft were saved from Ubiquity, but scattered to the edges of the galaxy, lest they succumb to the same ravages of destruction.  Worlds were abandoned, overcome by the nature that technology pushed away.  The humans left behind became animals.

On the science vessel Proust, the crew studying Ubiquity from afar believes they have found a way to process metal and overcome its destructiveness.  If they are correct, they have built the bridge that will save millions of lives across a dozen planets.

Excerpt

"The nominal level of debris surrounding any one of our dozen systems is impactful across 1.2 billion kilometers, orbital."  Teft flashed the monitors so that the historical citations firmly rooted themselves next to his data.  There were hundreds of governmental studies that cropped up on Ubiquity, effectively feeding into a single institute.  Teft was one of the last adherents to the Metallic Sciences Foundation, before it unceremoniously lapsed after the dispersion of all shifts beyond the orbital affected zone.

"There are known deviations to this.  Gravity wells.  Star corona.  These form paths, however, until three years ago, we could not 'see' these safety zones.  We were excited of course, but quickly found that they did not allow egress to most of the worlds, except one."  The image of the planet Arcārius came into view.  There was a path that brought most craft within hundreds of thousands of miles closest than any other planet.

Teft straightened his posture as he was to evoke the paper's name.  "In 2637-MSF-300837-WRIT-14-V-H, Metalurgical Stability of Transpurposed Composite, I must...we must traverse the space carved by Arcārius' star to come within 370,000 kilometers of the planet."

A well constructed animation visually walked through the effort that Teft described.  He loosened up and walked the stage, "I will need the following crew, fuel and craft to break through the effective area, assume descruction of the origin craft, land on the planet using composites as described before.  Once on the planet, I can build a fully operational facility to produce enough composite and prove out our working theory."

A hand was raised.  Dr. Philomea.  "And if it doesn't work?  We assume you are saying this is a one-way mission should you fail?"

"Correct.  The crew and myself will assume, if the collective theories do not hold true, that Arcārius would be our final home.  However, there is a bit of an out."  A new graphic showing an elliptical from the point of insertion.  "If we can prove out Ubiquity on the composite in the effective area, we have several minutes to shoot ourselves back toward the Proust.  Of course, using the correct protocols of sanitation.  If not, we would simply fly out into space."

Not even a chuckle.  Teft didn't expect one, but he half wanted to chuckle himself.

"I'll remind Senior Engineer Teft that suicide is not permissible.  You will have to prove the data to ensure us that your risk profile is low.  Lower than the mean."  Dr. Archer.  She shifted in her seat and her lips were pulled into a tight line.

Teft nodded.  "I can assure you by data my intention is purely risk adverse.  The reward however will outweigh the cost should we lose any of the two dozen lives that I ask committed to this task.  This is our best shot to save worlds and save ourselves."

He understood as he said that he had planet bias.  He did and he would doubt denying it.  The survival of the human and animal species depended on what the collect crafts could commit.

....

[short] Mega Force Ultra Imaginauts 8

Makoto's wrist communicator alarmed.  Tweee-eeep, tweee-eeep.  He leapt from his seat at school, which alarmed all the students and Mr. Tetsu.  Heads swung around to look.

"Forgive me, Tetsu-san!  I have urgent matters to attend to.  As you can hear, my communicator has alarmed.  It must be a city-wide emergency.  Professor Uri is asking for all Mecha R's to report at once!"

Mr. Tetsu likewise rose to his feet, as did the class, "Go Makoto!  Proceed at once and may the kami be with you!"

Makoto bowed and ran from the room, as he leapt from the doors of the school he quickly noticed the eerie calm that fell over his city, Yokohama.  The clouds were grey, but mottled oddly.  The ever present breeze was stilled.  What monster are we dealing with today?  His eyes narrowed as he saw that no one was watching.

"Mega Force Ultra 8!"  He shouted as he made the kanji of 'power' and 'wind' with his hands and arms.  The Mecha R super robot armor appeared on his body, protecting him from harm.  His wrist communicator made a victorious noise and Makoto knew he had successfully transformed into one of eight powerful robots that protected the metropolis of Tokyo.  He could hear Professor Uri in his headset.

"Makoto we have a profound emergency!  Mecha R 3 and 7 are already fighting in Saitama - there are three sea creatures there.  We need you, Mecha R 8 to get to the port as we see at least one creature there, overturning fishing boats.  Mecha R 2 will be joining you shortly!"

"Yes sir!  I am on my way!"  With that Makoto triggered power jets in his back and feet to launch into the air, and toward the port, which was just south-east of his school.  While he made the leap, he bent his arms to turn the jump into flight.  He checked his munitions and noted that he was at full strength.  He nodded the validation and made a call to his teammate, Hex.

"Hex!  Please report on the situation at the harbor..."

Hex had a wheeled chair that helped him move through-out the cavernous control center of the Imaginauts HQ.  He had to be able to turn the right dials and start the right mechanics if they were going to win the fight.  "Makoto!  Good to hear from you!  There is a Class B creature from the sea.  It has overturned several fishing boats and threatens to make it to the city.  You must stop it from extending beyond the port.  Lives are in the balance!"

"Thank you Hex.  I see the creature now!"

Below Mecha R 8's scanners, a large creature, made from seawood and oil, was writhing its long tentacles all over the harbor, crushing some fishing boats, while overturning others.  People were swimming to pier and scrambling up the netting.  Luckily, the creature doesn't appear to be concerned with people, just the boats.  Then, the creature dismantled key sections of the ships and made itself make-shift armor.  Makoto gasped.  He is making himself more powerful with the addition of the steel from those ships!  He noticed that the creature could also use the oil and gas from the harbor as a powerful weapon.  I must be careful!

Makoto turned on Mecha R 8's amplified speakers, "Creature, I do not know if you understand me, but you must stop this unprovoked attack.  Do you hear!?"  The creature only returned a barrage of oil and fire at him, which singed his armor.  If Makoto had not made an unparalleled movement at the last second, he would have been destroyed.  So that's the way it will be...

Mecha R 8's chest opened to reveal a series of missles, "Let's open with fire for fire!"  Makoto released the missles at the creature.  The explosion was fantastic and lit the bay for a short period of time in red light.  The creature screamed.

Makoto drew Mecha R 8 from the port, hopefully to lead the creature away...the plan worked!

The Class B creature then used all of the ships it had captured to create a body.  It stood on three legs and shielded its body.  It didn't work!  This time, it was the creatures time to attack - it was able to produce small bombs, launching them all at Mecha R 8.

Makoto was barely able to survive the attack, but did sustain damage.  He did have wrist guns.  He fired them at the beast while slowly receding toward the ocean.  I must get him away from the city.

The guns didn't do damage, Makoto could tell, but it did keep the attention of the beast.  It was then he heard his teammate on his headset, "Mecha R 8 this is Mecha R 2.  Do you need assistance?"

"I do, thank you Mecha R 2.  Missles don't seem to work, do you have any ideas?"

"Hm.  You've done an excellent job leading him from sure.  Perhaps we need to figure out a way to put this seaweed creature on ice?"

"Excellent!  What do you propose?"

Mecha R 2 flew across the path of the creature to keep its attention toward the ocean, "We can do this, we just need to think!"

The creature enveloped more boats and was making its way to a container frigate.

"Whatever the plan is, we must find it quickly!"

[end of section]

[rough] "Daughter Vengence"

"I sat with my father only once.  I agonized over it.  After it was over, I understood all I wanted to do was overcome that feeling.  That stupid feeling of completing something because it had stuck in the brain, like a shopping list."  She twirled the mug around.  Only a little coffee was left, smearing the bottom like ink.

She leveled her eyes on me.  Grey.  Not the slightest glint of tears in them.

"I've tried not to become hard.  But it caught up with me.  Tried not to be like him, and I couldn't escape it."  She stopped twirling the mug on its edge.  "Here we are."

I measured my voice.  I didn't want to come off the wrong way.  "Why does it have to be like that?  We asked for something different..."

"Doesn't matter."  I wanted to argue the point, but now was not the time.  I picked up my mug even though it was mostly empty and acted a sip.

She pulled a tendril of hair back.  Her sleeve dropped with it, revealing a portion of her markings.  She was not shy showing them, to the contrary.  But she didn't advertise either.  "I've told you more than I've told anyone else.  I suppose that is why you are good at what you do."

"I've seen you dance.  You are good at what you do."

She didn't smile.  I didn't expect her too.  I would have in others.

Quickly, "Did the song come before the dance?"

A slight shudder in her shoulders.  I hit a nerve.  You are not so hard then.  No one is.

"The song came first.  Years before.  I was just a little girl and didn't even know of it for some time.  The dance...that drifted in my mind for just as long.  So, yeah, I think they evolved together."  Chuckle.  Not light or sharp.  "I sometimes think it's more than me.  Or him.  I guess it had to be."

"That's profound."

She didn't shrug.  I did expect her to.

"What am I then?  If this is more than me?"  She stared at me for an answer.  I asked the waitress for a refill.

  

[short/rough]: Poorer Offerings the Wiser

laid at your feet

All that I had...all of what I could be
my heart, for what it's worth, may hold some value
to anyone other
could be brave, take my gaze, tell me what it amounts
even as a mere acquaintance I should feel more value than 

an abjected ally now
am I so easily cast, after all?

was it age, or time, or unintended me 

which detracted that first entrancing gleam
where I did my best to prove, that it was love (the best of what I could)
no small offerings here
just say the word
any one will do
and proof will be given

but being met in silence
or fear
or the mild misunderstanding that creates derisiveness
the light snarl of the lip
the flippancy of action
and it cuts me to the core
and I'll admit it
I'll tell you I wish it weren't so

but here it is

and how, or, by what means do you weigh an offered love?
impossible measures never met?
impassable climes of situational perfection?
unfathomable riches you'll heed in anyone else but me?
where I'm encumbered in admirable stones
aglow with the bright tones, respect and love
sigils of what is best, perhaps misplaced
assuredly
but where I could assure is that
if you simply accept them
hesitancy would fall away for you would see them true and not to harm

but in hailing, providing clarity
without no other desire than acceptance
all given
no one thing in return

where your lips would only be happily met in eager warmth
eyes that ignore the passing pleasures of the age to stare at you
and revel in the the darker hues when you look at mine
I sense subtlety
and done what i could to embrace yours
yet here we are
impassable, unfortuitous
lost.

[drink] the Dorsey Penicillin

The Venetian's Cocktail Lounge, the Dorsey, makes a refreshing and memorable Penicillin, a drink that's made the rounds of late.  In it's 'Conversation Pieces' section of its cocktail menu, it's simply listed as scotch, fresh lemon, ginger, honey & an Islay [scotch] float.  Breaking down a version for home, meaning we don't want to necessarily break the bank, may take some finesse.

The cocktail itself was created in 2005 by NY bartender Sam Ross.  Meant to be a cure-all, because of it's reliance on two very important (and I would note some Asian-influence) ingredients, the ginger, lemon and honey.  As prepared, it's meant to be sipped, breaking through the layer of Islay scotch.  It is there that you break through that smokey start and into the citrus sweet in the body.

To finish, you have a candied ginger, that gives you sweet sharp candy...and a hope to cure your ails.

Vegas has its atmospheric challenges, for those that go often.  The mixture of dryness and constantly air-conditioned air.  Smoke.  Among the global vector of people...I like to enjoy this drink a few times during a stay.  Not demonstrably, but, by belief, it helps keep me going.

So, to make a home version that recognizes we aren't all jet-setters with deep pockets:

The drink first starts with a honey-ginger syrup.  Honey, ginger and a cup of water, reduce and chill overnight.  Strain to keep it clear of any solids.  Take some care in its preparation for best results.

In a cocktail shaker:
- 2 oz of Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch Whiskey - ranges from $75-$90 - I enjoy this particular scotch for its refined taste and good pairing in cocktails
- 3/4 oz fresh lemon juice - and use real lemons, avoiding the plastic yellow one, with no offense against it, but the tones are much different
- 3/4 oz of the honey-ginger syrup
- ice

Give it a good shake, taking care to feel the temp of the shaker and consider not allowing too much ice to melt in the process.

If we are following the Dorsey, strain over a massive cube of ice, in a traditional 'old fashioned' cocktail glass.  You know, like a half-sized tumbler.  A glass is important for any cocktail to maintain flavor.

Layer the drink with a splash of Laphroaig Islay Single Malt Scotch Whiskey - ranges from $75.  Don't overpower the drink, a light 'shot' suffices here.  Laphroaig is a totally doable Islay with a nice cask taste of peat and oak.

Wrap it up with candied ginger.  Now, fair warning, it is sometimes hard to find at normal supermarkets.  You'll have better luck at a Sprouts or Whole Foods.

Let me say that you want all of this to complete the drink.  I have tried variants, without even close results.
...
As to the namesake -

We owe great credit, as a civilization, to Dr Alexander Fleming.  In 1928, while studying colonies of Staphylococcus aureus (you'll know it as a staph infection), good ol' Penicillium notatum prevented its growth.  It was not until Dr. Howard Florey (with biochemist Dr Ernst Chain) saw the research some 10 years later and then 'industrailized' it for practical use.

The first recipient of the refined pencillin did well, then died, but it proved enough of its worth to continue what would ultimately become a success.  It's interesting to note that the first recipient merely scratched his face while gardening, with a streptococci and staphylocci spread to his eyes and scalp - then death.  Not cool.

Drink well!  For the full site visit, edwardianjackal.com.

[If you want to replicate the bubble bottom glasses of the Dorsey, Walmart has a similar set.]
...

[listen] night sounds

hot nights mean cruising, cruising on hot nights leans on a solid mix tape

night sounds s1e1 https://edwardianjackal.podbean.com/e/edwardianjackalcom-podcast-night-sounds/

night sounds s1e2 https://edwardianjackal.podbean.com/e/edwardianjackal-night-sounds-s1-e2/

night sounds s1e3 https://edwardianjackal.podbean.com/e/edwardianjackal-night-sounds-s1e3/

...

[rhyme] la femme dangereuse

SHE collects their attention, steals any modicum of silence
or solace yet claims nothing
as if each glance were but a breath
taken but unremembered
where the fancy and object of desire is calm as silk
the fancier is brutalized
hungering for that which will only escape him
clamor in want
that will never, ever come
the animus fills
and the sheets soak in fitful, quiet rage
leading each time, every time, to hate
HER name
Soir de Paris in lace that was begged for as consolation
the feel of her skin, where one would swear it never touched before
and the reaction, the moment where the entire frame could be felt
and almost yours
and, as fleeting as it was,
the next instant the distance
insurmountable and cold

the eyes lost from you
not as if forgotten, even in a loss of memory, in the least there is a thread
that could be pulled
but not here

you are kept alive for some time
to extract what is needed to keep Guerlain upon those lips
Balenciaga on her shoulder
Lightly playing with langoustines a la vapeur at Hostellerie Jerome
After riding a young man from Brussels since lunch

Perhaps it's us
What does the hunt for the elusive
in the end
gain?