http://www.michaelkmeyers.com Michael K Meyers Thu, 22 Mar 2012 13:57:42 +0000 http://www.michaelkmeyers.com en http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/The-Significance-of-a-Cricket http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/The-Significance-of-a-Cricket Thu, 22 Mar 2012 13:57:42 +0000 Michael K Meyers 3057594 Originally published in Word Riot, Mar 15, 2012 Just off the sidewalk, in the overgrown trashy patch of weeds separating our place from someone else’s, I captured a cricket. I heard the raspy sound, reached out and snatched it, dropped it in a glass jar and went home to show my wife. In the kitchen I leaned in to the jar and looked. The cricket just another ugly bug. This shouldn’t have surprised me, I know, but I harbored the notion that if an insect should bestow good luck on its owner, then it should be adorable. I tilted the jar and the cricket flopped into my cupped hand. It commenced skittering, testing the limits and wiggling its antennae as though taking the kitchen’s temperature. I said to my wife—she was seated at the kitchen table, looking intently at the table’s surface and pretending not to notice me or the cricket—Look at this, our life has turned a corner, what was Left is now Right! (I was excited.) Through her impassivity (she did not look up) my wife informed me that whatever she was looking at was more compelling than anything I could show her. It always takes me a long time to get her attention, so finally I said, not for the first time, “One day you will die in a fire.” She readjusted her position on the chair, and I saw it then, the advertisement for kitchen appliances she was looking at, and pushed my open palm toward her, the cricket meandering its circumference. I spoke rapidly—my words an unbroken string—and informed her that while living in Wyoming I had made the acquaintance of a Chinese woman who kept three wicker baskets on her coffee table, tiny things the wicker baskets, I told her, and inside each was a cricket. Or maybe I told her some other story about Wyoming and crickets and Chinese people, it’s possible, or maybe I did not say anything, and stood beside the table looking down at the zigzag part in her hair. Either way, our life had turned a corner. http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Ernest-Hemingways-Hyena http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Ernest-Hemingways-Hyena Sun, 12 Feb 2012 20:39:58 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2795063 http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Seeing-China-The-Sentimental-Gendarme http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Seeing-China-The-Sentimental-Gendarme Tue, 27 Dec 2011 18:31:08 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2507740 Photo by William Harper Seeing China The Sentimental Gendarme of the Boulevard of Chatter http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Walleye http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Walleye Tue, 27 Dec 2011 18:20:41 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2333942 Walleye http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/U-S-Irregular http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/U-S-Irregular Mon, 21 Nov 2011 00:38:15 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2310607 Podcast originally published in Bound Off Short Story Podcast: Issue 70 U.S. Irregular U.S. Irregular Cop talks yak-yak-cop-talk, says, “Slathering fellow bad business.” Cop says, “Slathering, him, runt-sized run-of-the-mill product of twisty-tree. The kid,” cop says, “him, Slathering, the whole bunch-of-um no cream on top none-the-less,” says cop, “shake vigorously.” While yak-yaking, cop, multitasking, goes akimbo, goes un-akimbo, returns to akimbo and seeks more amicable location for genital family. Cop, relocation confirmed by absence of akimbo and un-akimbo, refocuses on yak-yak, saying, “Him…Slathering…is…” clears cop-throat, glances left-right, left-right seeking (it is presumed) ideal locale to receive spittle. Finds none. Swallows and (five-count) pats himself on the back then downshifts, says to himself, Self, cease cop yak-yak and replace with demo of cop-pursuit-run, and—pumping arms, pumping cop legs—cop runs in place. His hope: To impress a certain her: A lower-lip-swollen personage, elaborate and lacquered Dew reorganized into facsimile of failure, who, when standing (as she is) assumes in shape the letter C and does so because no-other-option-is-available to spinally saddened C-shaped. Fat-lipped C-shape studies the floor between her feet (no shoes, bunions, ruined angry hose) and cop-shoes as if (cop thinks) cop floor of interest to C-shape, which it is not. Cop (pumping arms, legs, running in place) demoing (his intent) cop-pursuit-run to fat-lipped C-shape (his hope being) to show C-shaped how cop appears when giving all out effort in the cause for justice—for the American way. As cop runs in place he multitasks and creates a Wish List. Wish Number 1: I wish for Fat-lipped C-shape to (paraphrase) admire the muscular swell of my cop-ardor and forgive me for knocking her down, ruining her Dew and fattening her lower lip. Wish Number 2: #2 wish interrupted by cop’s nervous system informing cop that he is out-of-cop-breath. Cop, hands on knees, mouth gaping, waits for breath to catch up and also for applause from C-shaped Fat-lip for demo of cop-ardor. When no applause forthcoming breath-deprived cop reasons: Number 1. C-shaped Fat-lip is no Daffy Duck, but is, rather, Number 2. A Wil E. Coyote type who knows all he (cop) seeks is détente and (sadly) cop realizes that C-shaped Wil E. Coyote has not decided if she will or will not bestow on cop signed and notarized copy of desired détente. While cop experiences the above, C-shaped Fat-lip Wil E. Coyote receives communiqué from Her Self. Communiqué reads: You must run to the ladies room right now and go pee. Before doing so, C-shape extends to cop much-desired détente, or, rather, C-Shape, on verge of extending desired détente swallows desired détente replacing it with, “Foo You, Foo You.” C-shape relaxes sphincter. Urine forms puddle around her feet, which for a moment resembles her deceased husband and (the following is from P.O.V. of cop and in cop words) “urine moves in direction of my cop shoes.” C-shaped Fat-lip reaches (gesture characterized by words abrupt and brutal) into her purse—strap rudely torn, leatherette exterior scuffed—retrieves cell phone and punches cell in various places numerous times. Cop thinks, Not-Local-Call. Cop thinks, C-shape Fat-lip attempts contact with moon where inside fancy titanium igloo a coven of C-shaped personal injury attorneys reside. While C-shape awaits response from moon cop becomes hyper-aware of tick-tock-tick-tock of huge, unforgiving, no sense of humor glass-cover-cracked wall clock. C-shape speaks into cell in (cop thinks this) must-be-out-of-town version of U.S. Irregular and while listening multitasks. Entire genital family relocated; access to pool, swing-set, mega flat-screen, three-story entrance atrium with ceiling fan, the works. C-shape stops talking and listens, head going up-down left-right as she does. Fat-lipped C-shape shifts gears, no longer speaks out-of-town version of U.S. Irregular, but, rather, downshifting, speaks untranslatable dot-dash talk. (Cop takes one giant step away from urine puddle ameba like inching toward his right cop-shoe.) From sour-grape expression on face of Fat-lipped C-shape cop understands dot-dash talk is flipside (is B-side) of good news causing cop sphincter to go, Clench Tight. As C-shape listens to message from moon she morphs, becomes (momentarily) the capital letter I and as capital letter I, Fat-lipped I-Shape, using her eyes bores 9mm sized entry wound into the bone-box of cop then returns to former self, returns to C-shape and peruses urine puddle that currently resembles, The Statue of Liberty. Reverting to U.S. Irregular, C-Shape says to Invisible Someone inside igloo on cratered surface, “Such and such, and so and so, and more and more,” then punches cell (one punch; Taekwondo, MMA) and drops cell into purse then clears her Fat-lipped C-shape throat allowing glob of just-then-drawn-from-great-depth phlegm to tumble from center of her fat and discolored lower lip and fall into urine puddle experiencing transitional Dali phase. C-shape, speaking U.S. Irregular, says to cop, “Must-go-now,” says, “must-go-away-from-cop-house-right now. Right now-now.” She says more, says, “This and that.” Her words when tabulated equal bad news. C-shaped gone, cop removes cigarettes (Viceroy Hard Pack) from jacket pocket, takes one, smacks filter-tip end twice against face of digital wristwatch, and says, “Taaaaa-boooot.” Lights up, inhales (six count) exhales through nose (seven count, a record), repeats, says to other cops in cop-house, “Ta-boot! Ta-boot in a stone place.” Cop seated at desk under huge, glass-cover-cracked wall clock, speaking from side of mouth through near-invisible lip slit, says, “Dunk-an kee-aylas.” Says again, louder, longer, “Dunk-an kee-fucken-aylas!!!” All cops (six, maybe eight) do flash-glance at cop seated under wall clock and in unison (or almost so) head-nod to desk-seated cop. Desk-seated cop leans back, puts feet on desktop and laughs, big time, goes, “Ha-ha.” Then all cops (loud, distinct, a chorus) go, “Ha-Ha-Ha,” then repeat all of above. Repeat all of above. http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/The-Interrogation-of-Marie-Antoinette http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/The-Interrogation-of-Marie-Antoinette Sat, 19 Nov 2011 23:46:12 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2333902 http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Painting-The-Cat http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Painting-The-Cat Sat, 19 Nov 2011 23:33:20 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2333888 http://www.alicebluereview.org/main.html Painting The Cat My half-sister, Evelyn, using her good hand, the other bandaged, informs me of her desire to paint the cat, who after a trip to the vet is doped up and also bandaged, both Evelyn and the cat’s injuries inflicted by my Jack Russell, partially painted and on the porch hiding under the wicker couch. Somewhere in the house Evelyn’s mother, my stepmother, sleeps. The majority of the day she does that—eyeballs jumping around, snoring, bare feet twitching. With the cat’s hindquarters purple, Evelyn’s head droops, the paintbrush falls to the floor, and she goes inside herself somewhere, victim I think of the inner darkness she inherited from her mother. When her breathing steadies I ask if she wants to return to what we were discussing before she got the idea to paint the cat. She nods, though I doubt she remembers. “We were discussing the zebra,” I tell her, “the one that bit you the one that is now on the porch hiding under the wicker couch.” She nods. “While you where zoned out I looked it up, and although gaily striped the book says zebras resist affection.” “They sure do,” Evelyn says weakly. At the time I was working on a bonding-type phrase, something that at difficult moments half-siblings can say to each other and no one else will get it. At the time the one I liked best was, “Life outside the reservation makes all of us jumpy.” I tell her. She hates it, gets up and heads for a pot of paint I think to throw it at me. From my father I’ve inherited super powers: In moments of physical or emotional danger I dematerialize, and with Evelyn—paint pot in hand, arm cocked and rocking forward I vanish, rematerializing on the porch. With one zebra strip on his muzzle, the Jack Russell, ears flat, flashes me a dog’s version of a smile. “Stuff happens,” I explain before rematerializing in the living room where Evelyn, eyes shut, head drooped, stands motionless beside the couch where her mother sleeps. The bristles of her paintbrush and one of her mother’s big toes are red. For the foreseeable that is that. http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/U-S-Irregular-The-movie http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/U-S-Irregular-The-movie Thu, 17 Nov 2011 22:33:30 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2324712 http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Fatso-in-The-Late-Afternoon http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Fatso-in-The-Late-Afternoon Tue, 15 Nov 2011 18:56:29 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2310608 http://www.sporkpress Fatso In The Late Afternoon Mom had gone into the street and hired juveniles, urchins really. In boom times she might come back with three, four or five of them. Until scalded clean it was difficult to determine age or sex. An excellent instructor, given a few hours she could turn those versed in the rudiments of juggling into near-professionals, and if youngsters were physically gifted, though lacking specific knowledge, she could instruct them to perform the basics in a similar amount of time. While seeking flavor from the innards of a jelly filled doughnut I hear her in the kitchen working with them, instructing, cajoling and offering encouragement. Her voice, though muted by the closed kitchen door, is upbeat, which, I think, must take a lot out of her. If I am able I help her roll the Porta-Stage into the living room and then, energy spent, flop back on the couch and continue to work on the doughnut, my tongue exploring concavities. Mom, maintaining supernatural cheeriness, props my feet on a pillow so blood won't pool, adjusts the spot-lights and tells the juveniles in the kitchen to get ready. As soon as she sets the stereo going I place the doughnut on my chest. The door flies open and they come bounding out. It's a sight—all of them decked out in the harlequin costumes she's sewed for them—yellow and green diamond shapes her signature design. And for the entire time they're tossing and catching colored balls I can imagine how life—the concept of it, the big picture—to some people at least must appear urgent and pretty darn sweet. http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/Staying-Up http://www.michaelkmeyers.com/following/michaelkmeyers.com/Staying-Up Tue, 15 Nov 2011 18:47:25 +0000 Michael K Meyers 2310473 http://www.sporkpress.com/ Staying Up My masseuse says, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you good, so don’t change the channel.” I tell her I will not, will never do that. While being kneaded and kneaded my imagination takes me to destinations inappropriate for relaxation: A falcon lands on my face its talons digging in; my brother kicks open my bedroom door and pisses on my homework, stuff like that. I can't wait a whole week to tell my shrink what I was thinking while I was getting a massage; she’ll orgasm. I call her from my masseuse’s lobby. Once she collects herself, my shrink says, “This is great news.” And then, “You are making real progress and we are on the faster track to your mental wellbeing.” She suggests that from now on we meet twice weekly, telling me then that she’s had a cancellation and I should come right over. I tell her that what she just said, the stuff about my mental wellbeing is great news, truly, but I can’t come over, not right now, maybe tomorrow because right now I am way, way too happy to come down, then I do exactly that, I crash. She says, a little hysterical, “Hail a cab!” My shrink’s receptionist is on the sidewalk pacing. He takes my arm at the elbow and escorts me into the building. Waiting for the elevator I perk up, say, “Release me!” He refuses, twists my arm behind my back and bends my wrist. In the express elevator, with blood swelling my ankles and feeling a tad light-headed, I say to the receptionist, “Dwayne, go fuck yourself.” Fellow passengers occupy the corners, or try. Dwayne, or whatever his name is presses my wrist harder, twists my shoulder up a micro-millimeter and I experience a version of pleasure appreciated by few and tear-up. I am totally topped off with pleasure, so much am I topped off that I weep. My shrink’s receptionist, a professional and knowing more about my body then I do, pushes and presses and on my tippy-tippy toes, and perhaps to the delight of my fellow passengers I do an itty-bitty dance. “Dwayne,” I squeal, “this is the first time in I don’t know, that I have felt true buoyancy, don’t stop, please don’t stop; don’t let go.”