PRANAYAMA

love from oblivion

embraces the pain, sending it on its way

the love that comes from the comfort zone

gets in the way and the pain stays

we found ourselves away from home

in a dream

out of control

the dream

became lucid when we let go

fear was observed

doubt faded away

decisions were clearly made

our treasures of diamonds and gold

were waiting to reappear

our kingdom

wasn't close it was right here

was made material by being there

we paid attention to the air

as it moved through our energy fields

the blood was clean then

and the delusion had seemed so real…

Question and Answer with J.A. Whitaker

Hi I am Nelson Hawkins and it is my honor to bring you this interview with literary genius and philosopher J. A. Whitaker.

“Mr. Whitaker, it is a pleasure to know you sir”

“My name is Ty, but call me dude.”

“Absolutely, Dude.”

“Well great, you got some questions for me or what?”

“I do sir, I mean dude. Here they are.”

Hawkins: Who the fuck are you?

Whitaker: I was born in Kansas City Missouri on 11/07/1977, I haven’t died yet, I will die, but my life will serve beyond my lifetime or not.

Hawkins: Not?

Whitaker: I’ve tried to start a lot of fires that went out.

Hawkins: You’re always talking about fire. You have a blog called, “The Vestal Fire” and you have coined the term “Lit Generation”. Can you explain that?

Whitaker: Do you got a light?....A lighter?

(Mr. Whitaker places a hand rolled Jamaican blunt in his mouth.)

Hawkins: Are you going to smoke that?

Whitaker: Not without some fire.

Hawkins: Okay, here.

Whitaker: Thank you Nelson…

Hawkins: So about your blog?

Whitaker: Its lame., Here smoke this with me.

Hawkins: Don’t mind if I do. Gee I love my job.

Whitaker: Why do you love your job?

Hawkins: Because I get to smoke tea with great writers.

Whitaker: If you were a girl I’d fuck you silly….I’d be the first pussy I got in a long time.

Hawkins: Your shitting me; you get laid right?

Whitaker: The last time I fucked was over three years ago.

Hawkins: Why?

Whitaker: Well, I was fucking this girl and she had an orgasm that was a multiple and a crescendo of energy. She had a heart attack and died right as I came insider her. I now have to take Viagra just to jerk off.

Hawkins: Holy Shit!

Whitaker: Exactly!

Hawkins: You seem excited about it?

Whitaker: Have you ever fucked someone to death?

Hawkins: No.

Whitaker: Well, you just don’t know what its like until you’ve tried it.

Hawkins: You mean this tea?

Whitaker: Dude, your fucked up? … (silence) Okay, so any other questions? …

Hawkins: Y-h-e-a, d-u-d-e. W-h-a-t’s i-n t-h-i-s t-e-a?

Whitaker: It’s called Mind Eraser.

Hawkins: O-w-ka-y.

Whitaker: Well, I’m gonna get the fuck outta here.

Hawkins: O-k-a-y d-u-d-e.

Whitaker: Don’t have fucking heart attack on me man. See ya’.

Beatnik Cabby

It was 4 AM and I was drunk, high on speed and just got of the phone with the third 1-900 number of the night, lonely, hopeless and wired with amphetamine and lit with Kansas moon-shine I decided I needed to get out of the house... My house isn’t really a house; it’s actually a house on wheels called a motor home. I live on the outskirts of Kansas City in a small middlewest town called Boner Rapids. Outside my trailer are rows of trailers just like it. At four AM the only people up are the people like me, people with hearts beating like mad, sipping fire-water and roaring with hell-bent hormones and wild ideas. The moon was lit in full and dogs where barking at each other from across the trailer park and I could hear a few domestic screams from down the row of metal boxes about four of five lots away which I paid no mind to because hearing people yelling at each other in the middle of the night from my front door-step is as common as dogs barking at a fully lit moon. In the shimmering night I could see the glow of things and it was fairly bright outside as I waited next to my beat-up car that was broken down and had been broken down for a time for the cab I called to take me into Kansas City to perhaps find some action and burn off the rest of the night. My pit bull, Luca Brasi looked at me from inside the window as I waited. I always felt bad about leaving Luca alone even though he was a fighting dog we got along pretty good. I had beat he hell out of the dog earlier that day for backing down from two other pit-bulls who wandered in my yard that day. Even though it was two on one I was rather disappointed in Luca and thought he could have done better so I gave it to him good and whipped him with a steel chain for a good five minutes straight and whatya’ now? Yep, the damn dog still loves me. After he got whupped I kicked him so hard in his throat I thought he was gonna die right there on me, he was gasping for air and queezing. I hustled for my 12 gage to shoot those pits that attacked him and they must have known what was coming for them because the ran away in a hurry and I didn’t bother going after them. I have pride in ol’ Luca and I think he be just fine, just pissed me off is all. There was now dew on the grass and pavement and I took a piss behind an elm tree next to dumpster between my trailer and pool where mothers send there children to play while they cook up purple bathtub crank, drop babies on the floor every nine months or so and watch the Jerry Springer Show. I saw my cab coming from down the road driving slow looking for my address down the road. I rustled up my balls and zipped up my pants after I shook my penis dry. I looked at Luca one last time sitting in the window with a sad look in his eye. As the cab pulled up I lifted up my hand to signal him to come on down the drive. I jumped into the passenger side getting nice whiff of stale cigarette smoke and immediately notice the drive also had a nice bottle of port next to his side. He was listing to Thelonious Monk, bopping his head and I could tell this guy might have had an even longer night than I had already. He said, “where to boy” and I said, “Kansas City, Westport”. He grinned and took a lug off his port bottle then asked nonchalantly, “don’t mind if I kick a few back do ya?” I said, “don’t mind at all, in fact had a few myself ‘night”. He drove perfectly, never missing a beat, cruising and zooming through Boner Rapids into downtown KC, Thelonious Monk was jamming, jiving and taking it home when the cabby looked at me. I felt like I was about to die even though he was driving just fine, he kept on with his port and I think he could tell I was getting a little nervous. He paused a second then turned down his stereo, lighting up a cigarette and rolling down the window. I got ready for him to talk like it was some type of test then he chuckled for a second then said, “so what brings you out at four AM tonight, I’m just curious, if you don’t mind me asking”. I looked at the smoke coming off the cigarette in his hand that was on the steering wheel in suspended animation, feeling the vibration from the engine and the heat coming from the floor into my feet. I said with a moments pause, “well, if you don’t mind me asking, do you know where I can get some action?” He looked at me with amusement and laughed and said, “O’, well- what kind of action are you looking for friend?” Before I could answer him he said, “Sex, Drugs, Gambling….huh huh huh or maybe a church open?” Without hesitation, “Girls” I said, “Girls, girls, girls”. He then said very loud, “We have ourselves a John here” and screamed, “whoohee”. Then he added in a quieter voice, “yhea, I know where to go” and nodded his head as if he was joking before. Then he polished off his bottle and said, “I like black girls”. “Really”, I said as to keep the conversation going. He said, “O’ man I love black girls, they are so much more fun, they love on you and make love to you and do it in a real playful way, ya know? O’ I love making love to black girls.” “You know I’ve never made love to a black girl before, I sure do know their aggressive though” I said. He said, “O’ yhea they’ll suck the hair right off yr chum boy, don’t even try to get away.” He asked in a real serious tone, “Do you like jazz boy? Do you know anything about poetry?” I was feeling the dirty crank I smoked zooming through me, I knew I was bullet proof and listing to the stereo play, “bobbly be bop, bobbly be bop, boobly bang boogly”, the man was asking me a question, oh yhea! “I never listened to this shit in my life, but I like it man”. “NO YOU DON’T!” He yelled. I was surprised, fight or flight kicked in and I grabbed his neck and gave him a hard choke, my muscles flexed and I could feel the blood in his veins. The car spun out and we both died.

the murder mystery of R.S. Brown

Shame is bottom of the story, shame is the abyss of the soul and shame is what Sgt. Vasser’s brain was soaked in the night he was murdered. His body was found naked and bloated, his wife’s to, both beheaded, heads shrunken to the size of a fist and placed back on their bodies stitched with fishing line is how it looked when detective Marvin Inspector arrived at the scene. Over by the wall was the calling card, the calling card of R.S. Brown. R.S. Brown known for leaving behind a pile of pubic hair at every murder he is linked to. He grows his pubic hair for four months then when it is time to shave he does it after he murders someone, usually in a corner. After he shaves his genitals he squats a digestive mass on top of it. There have been 7 murders in which R.S. Brown has been linked to where Marvin Inspector has arrived on the scene. Each time R.S. Brown has left behind droppings that have been vibrant and distinct in color, but never ever brown. The first one almost looked as red as cold blood, but the examination didn’t show any sign of it. He is angered at yet another, his blood boils, his speech is harsh and his actions are rushed. “What does it take to get a regular serial killer to chase?” “Alright guys” he points to some snake-cops, “clean-up this shit, put in the evidence bag and don’t mash it up too much.” The snake-cops looked at each other blankly and Marvin Inspector added, “don’t eat any of it either I know some of it looks tasty.” He grinned. The second murder the shit was orange, then lemon yellow, green, some shades of blue and purple and now it was this indigo color. Marvin Inspector snaps on the examining gloves, takes out Sgt. Vasser’s pocket’s, finds a small leather notebook on it inscribed the letters, “Secret Notebook” inside on the first page was titled, “Rattle-Snake-Bite” and like the other victims they died from poison injected by fangs into their feet which quickly penetrated into the blood-stream. After the title was read Marvin Inspector was interrupted by a rattle and coming at him from under it struck him. He remembers being afraid, but his memory is still blurred as he stands above his body watching the snake-cops scramble to save him and suck the venom from as he dies. He looks on in silent horror, he looks on as afraid as an egg about to hatch, but as curious as a fish someone is about to catch. He looks at me. I read his mind and tell you what happened.

The day was beautiful, light was warm on Stg. Vassar’s skin as momentary cool breezes brushed through the screened in porch where he and his wife drank pink lemonade. After 30 years on the snake-cop force waiting for these retirement days...they had finally arrived.