Two

I understand how the title could be confusing. I began this poem when I was on a trip. I was staying at a friend’s house on NORWAY LAKE in the U.P. (Upper Peninsula) in Michigan. I was missing Judy, my wife, and I kept finding long strands of her hair in my clothes. It wasn’t a lot of hair but since I was missing her I noticed anything her. “It is a fine Line like mono Filament.” I thought these lines conjured up a lake like feel, i.e. fishing lines. And of course I knew the story behind the title so it seemed appropriate. I generally write for a small audience, me and maybe two others, but for a wider audience I will consider a new title. Thanks for reading!

They walked down the road to the bridge where they were going to fish. It was a shorter walk across the field but it had rained in the night and the field was all soft and muddy. Bill liked walking down the road with Clay. The morning sun felt good on his arms. He liked coming up to Arlene's. He liked seeing his cousins. Arlene was his mom's sister. There were puddles of water in the ruts of the road, but along the sides and in the center, the sun had dried the road so that it was firm enough to walk on without getting your shoes wet and muddy. It was hard for Bill to walk beside Clay because the dry stretch between the field and ruts in the road was narrow. He would walk far enough behind so that he didn't poke Clay with his fishing pole. Sometimes he would jump from the side of the road across the ruts to the high strip in the center, and then he could catch up and walk along side his cousin. But the center strip was narrower and he always had to look down at his feet to be sure he didn't step into the water or some mud. Eventually a puddle would lie clean across the road and he would have to jump back to the side behind Clay. When the sun went behind a cloud, Bill's arms got cold. He looked up at the sky. There were only a few clouds, but they were big and the undersides were gray and filled with rain. "Do you think it'll rain?" ask Bill. "No." Clay didn't look at the sky. He hoped the clouds would blow over and the sky would clear like it was when he first went out that morning. Bill could smell the smell of rain mixed with the smell of the wet fields, but he hoped Clay was right about the rain. When they reached the bridge, he felt the first few drops. He didn't say anything to Clay. Clay crossed to the right of the road just before it went up over the bridge. He took a path that led down to the bank of the river. They went out and up onto the wooden timbers of the bridge footing. Bill watched carefully where he stepped. He followed Clay around and to the left underneath the bridge. They stopped and looked out at the rain. It began to come down hard and fast in big wet bullets. Bill sat down on the wooden timbers and dangled his feet over the edge. His feet hung about a foot above the water. The wooden timbers of the bridge footing reminded him of railroad ties. They looked and smelled of creosote. They were laid one on top the other in a square U-shape with the open end of the U buried into the bank and the bottom of the U extending out into the river. Where Bill sat, at the bottom of the U, the timbers dropped straight down into the water. Inside the box of timbers were big broken boulders the size of small pillows, but they were hard to walk on and sit on. About four feet from the edge where Bill sat, in the middle of the broken rock, the bridge supports went down into the footing. When Bill put the can of worms down behind the wooden timbers into the rocks, he found the tin can they used yesterday to keep the worms. The rain made little circles everywhere in the river except under the bridge. Bill looked across the river at the footing on the other side. It was forty feet across to the other side. There was a clear path on the water underneath the bridge where the water was shielded from the rain. The thud of each drop on the bridge overhead drowned out the sound of the moving stream. Clay sat down beside Bill. It was dark in the shadow of the rain cloud and in the shadow of the bridge. Clay said, "I don't think the rain will bother the fish too much. Besides I don't think it'll rain very long." Bill looked into the water. "The water is dark, I can't see very far down." Clay unhooked the hook on his fishing pole from the first eyelet. The rod was bent when the hook was fastened but Clay slowly let it straighten so the hook wouldn't catch him in his fingers. He laid the pole down in the rocks behind him and held onto the line near the hook. "Will you give me an angleworm?" he asked Bill. Bill stuck his hand into the new can to dig out a worm. "There still might be some good ones left in the old can," Clay said. Bill reached over and grabbed the old can that was wedged between two rocks. The dirt looked dry in it. Bill shook the can. He found a worm. It didn't look too fresh. He reached in the can and picked it out. He handed it to Clay. "It'll be all right," Clay said. He took the worm and began to thread it onto the hook, one end first. When he had the hook completely covered he broke the worm off leaving a quarter of an inch dangling from the end. He gave the broken piece back to Bill. "You can use it. It is still long enough." Bill threaded what was left of the worm onto his hook. It was long enough. "Are there very many worms left in the old can?" Clay asks. "Yeah, there's some," Bill said. "Put the cans in the rocks right here, so I can reach them too." Clay pointed to a spot between them. Bill put down his pole and moved the cans. When he had them sitting so they wouldn't spill he picked up his pole and dropped his hook into the water. Clay's line was already in the water. Bill followed it down to where the sinkers were squeezed onto the line. It was almost out of sight. He could see the hook with the worm just past the sinkers. The current pulled the hook downstream. Bill let out his line until it was as far down as Clay's. They liked to let the line down as far as they could because in the deeper water was where the bigger fish were. The biggest fish were on the bottom. But they didn't like to let it go so far so they couldn't see the hook. They liked to watch the fish nibble on the worm before one would get bold enough to strike the hook. Also Bill was afraid some fish would steal the worm off the hook without him knowing it, and then he would sit there forever waiting for a fish to strike. Clay knew it really didn't matter because even when Bill could see the hook with the worm on it and he hadn't had any strikes for a while he would pull the worm up to check on it. Clay just smiled and tried to be more patient with his own line. The water was dark because of the rain and they couldn't let their lines down very far. Usually there were lots of fish in water under that side of the bridge. The small ones would be up near the surface and when Bill or Clay dropped anything into the water they would strike it and follow it down to where the bigger fish would be pointing upstream into the current. When the fish moved, their silver sides would flash and shine in the sunlight. But there wasn't any sun now and there didn't seem to be too many fish. The rain started to let up and the steady thuds of the rain falling on the bridge overhead began to break up into individual drops. Bill was watching his own line when Clay got a big bite. Clay jerked his pole up to set the hook. He didn't jerk so hard that he would pull the hook out of the fish's mouth. When Bill saw Clay jerk up his pole he knew that he had one on. Bill quickly reeled his line in and stood up out of Clay's way. Bill could see where the line went into the water, but he couldn't see the end of the line where the fish was. The line cut the surface of the water as the fish moved trying to shake the hook out of its mouth. Clay was standing now working the fish against the drag of the reel off the left end of the bridge footing. Bill followed him around, but not to close so he wouldn't be in the way if the fish changed direction. The fish weakened and Clay was reeling him in. The fish came to the surface; it was a big shiner about twelve inches long. It struggled as Clay pulled it from the water. Clay reached out and grabbed it firmly with one hand and handed his pole to Bill. With his other hand he took hold of the end of the hook and removed it from the fish's mouth. He bent down and hit the fish's head sharply on a big rock. He laid the fish in the rocks. It was limp and lifeless. The rain had almost stopped and the sun was coming out. "He's a pretty big one," Bill said. "He'll be good," Clay said. "Have you ever caught one that big here?" Bill asked. "I don't know. He's pretty big." "Do you think there are any more that big down there?" "Oh yeah, I'm sure there are plenty more where he came from. There's some really big ones on the bottom." "You don't think he's the biggest that was down there." "No, do you think so?" Clay knew that there were lots of fish that size and that there were some bigger. "I don't know." Clay found another worm in the can they used yesterday. It was the last good one in that can. He laid the worm out on the wooden timber where they were sitting. It was small and the dirt on its sides was all dried up, but it was still moving. Clay dumped the old the can out and brushed through the dirt, then he swept the dirt off and into the broken rock on the inside of the timbers. "The rest weren't any good," he said. He put the can back in the rocks and began to bait the hook with the worm he had put down. He pushed the barb of the hook through the worm and wrapped it around the hook. Then he pushed the barb through the worm again to make sure it stayed on the hook. He tossed the hook back into the water. Bill had already put his line back in, he had let it drop further to the bottom. The sun was now out and in the sunlight they could see deeper into the water. "It seems like there are more of 'em now," Bill said, looking into the water at the fish. "I think the small ones must go deeper when it is raining," Clay said. "Don't the big ones eat the little ones at the bottom?” "I don't know. I don't think so, maybe they do." Bill had to bait his hook twice more before he finally caught a fish. Clay helped him take it off the hook, but he hit it's head on the rock himself. It made him a little sick to his stomach to kill the fish like that. It was better then letting the fish flop around on the rocks. He knew there was some things you just had to do and it was best if you just got on with them and didn't think about them too much. Banging the fish's head on the rocks was one of those things. They caught five more, seven altogether, before they headed home for lunch. Clay caught four and Bill caught three. The biggest was the first one Clay caught. It was the biggest shiner he had caught in a long time and he was glad Bill was there to see him catch it. He always took Bill fishing for shiners when he came to visit. They were easier to catch then trout. They didn't clean the fish; they weren't going to eat them. They just buried them in his mom's garden for fertilizer. They hooked the hooks on the first eyelets of their poles, bending them, when they were ready to go. Clay put the fish into a burlap bag. Bill watched him. "Give me that empty can. Can you carry the other can?" Clay asked. "Yeah," said Bill. Clay put the empty can into the bag. He stepped around Bill and went out from under the bridge and onto the path up to the road. Bill followed behind him out of the shadow of the bridge into the sun. There weren't any clouds overhead now. They were far off on the horizon down the valley. The sun felt good on Bill's arms. They walked home for lunch.

Until I was ten years old we lived in Montana. We would go to the cemetery to place flowers on the graves of family members. One grave was unmarked and it was hard to find exactly where it was. I always tried to walk around the graves. I never stepped on the place I thought the heads would be below. We moved to Idaho. When I would walk to school I had to walk through a large cemetery. I was apprehensive at first. I stuck to the road. But it was not long until I felt as comfortable in the cemetery as in a park. I would run all over the place not caring where I would step, looking at names, dates and epitaphs on head stones. I am still comfortable in that cemetery even more so since one of my family members is now buried there. “there are hundreds of people below you, there is no one beside you” As many times as I had walked alone through the cemetery that thought never occurred to me though it is very true. I like that description. It is very fresh.

I enjoyed this story very much! It is an interesting and appropriate way to describe power lines, “thoroughfares of energy.” I would like to hear the story of how the rusted-off trailer hitch came to be lying in the shoulder. I wonder if it came off a trailer that was being towed at the time. You can find all sorts of strange things on the shoulder of a road. I especially like the twist for the ending. I like to write stories that surprise at the end. There are some sneakers hanging from lines near my house. It is an odd thing but now I will look to see if they have baby birds in them. Thanks,

On Norway Lake It is a fine Line like mono Filament. I find It in my sweater On my shirt. And it is not mine. Please cling To me. Falling Unintended. Floating Curving in the water Of my shaving sink As cathedral tracings. Watching for the long Sacred threads on my pillow. Wishing for the tickle Against my face. Longing over the telephone Wire. Is it a spider web? Traps me and calls Me home? No. It is the constant imperceptible Growing, longer instant After instant. Then. Now Shocked at the surprise Of the surprise like My big eyes at the new Buildings in my home Town after a year away. Or remembering Micheal's birth when He tells me to come To his house in Germany. Today, as any Five year old would ask Judy's hair grows And falls out on my clothes.

You are right. It is not finished. I thought it would be a serialized short story. I am hoping to write possibly four more posts. I have the idea, and I need to make some notes so I do not forget. Things happen like that. I will make the next post soon. It has shinies in it but not the kind Wyvern likes.

Extraordinary Orchard In the kitchen, standing over my sink I see out the glass above the faucet. The side yard is green. I began to think The dog barks, pulls his chain. Where’s the exit? No, the dog just like me, wants company He thinks he’s human, living with people. Fruit trees abound, apricot, Sweet Cherry Over treetops, a recruiter’s steeple Recruiting Company we’d like to keep. Under-roots what thread of emotion lie? Buried deep twice, Sweet Cherry do not weep. Thread, taken by an arrow from the sky! To chase away the black, P brings a lamp, If only Wyv could find that ‘ceptance stamp.

The wheels spin in my head as the gears in the new oyster perpetual Rolodex clock. I rub my chin. I say “Ahh… The famous missing acceptance stamp problem, I see. Hmm…”

Happy Birthday Nyyrak. Twenty years already! I still remember exactly where I was when you blessed your family with your birth. How exciting, first Grandchild, first Nephew, First son. It is good to remember. -Two

(OOC: Yes, Yes, it has been long time since you told me about the site and said I should post. Work is a bad habit. Regrets can be overwhelming, especially regrets over something one should have done sooner. No Regrets.) Meanwhile, was there movement in the Portrait of Zool?

I have read about the Recruiter’s Office but I have never been there personally (gone postal). I think I should adventure there soon, since the reasons for the journey down the hall to the Lizard’s Office keep pilling up. It is already quite a load. Without a bag of holding it has become quite cucumbersome. As a note to myself, I inscribe a list in the oft-misplaced ledgers of my mind. “What am I forgetting?” The List: 1. Apologies for the possible misconstrued perception that THE LIZARD and the lizard mentioned in Serious Crumble are one in the same! 2. Little did I know what a big blunder it was to choose Guest1 as a user name, I was not in the proper frame of mind at the time. I must give thanks to all Members of the Pen for now recognizing me as “Two”. 3. To deliver as a gift, a large (6’ 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939”), freestanding oyster perpetual Rolodex clock, subaviator, to replace the “smashed to splinters” Grandfather Clock. (Will there be mixed splinters from the clock and the door in Wyvern’s office? No. Melba should have swept up the door tears prior to the loss of time.) 4. To put forward my application. The clock has a large wooden base about two by two feet. The width stays the same front to back but sides swooped up becoming narrowest at the point where the large round face is mounted. Unfortunately it has no weights or chains like the usual grandfather clock, it is more like a clock you might find at train station platform. On the face it appears the numbers run counter-clockwise. The eleven is in the one’s place, the ten is in the two’s place and so on. But on closer inspection the number eleven is composed of tiny number ones. The number ten is composed of tiny number twos. The whole face of the clock is as such. The number six is composed of tiny number sixes. This was so that you can tell time forward and backwards. The clock lacks a key for winding, as it is an oyster perpetual. Some one, likely the Almost Secretary Melba, would have to shake it around once every couple of days. I have a friend that I like travel with but he is on vacation, taking in the Tour de France. Normally he packs large items around for me. We met while he was working at the dry docks. His job was lifting the boats in and out. I would tell you his name but I do not want to be a namedropper. As he wasn’t around I had to carry the clock to Recruiter’s Office myself. It was a struggle. When I had reached the door I was quite excited and winded, (the clock was heavy.) I was excited to make the acquaintance of such a distinguished door. I have some history with doors. I was once in an ancient hallway with many doors that opened out into various places, worlds, and planes. Those doors were in need of repair and in the process of repairing them I learned something of their nature. I imagine what I knew of them was only the tip of the iceberg. Recently I have moved to an old house (new to me) with many old wooden doors. There are five sets of French doors and many solid doors. The front door has great iron hinges and the top is curved in a semi-circle. Some of the inside doors are painted but I think underneath is hidden the same wood that the unpainted doors have. I have been told it is some kind of southern gum. Since I live in the north this is unusual. Anyhow I had never met a door, which wished to be betrothed to a demomness. Was that bride or bridge? Or in that case would they be one in the same? I stood before the door, clock in hand. “Door, err… If I may, Woody, may I introduce myself? I am now called Two. Formally and unfortunately I was called Guest1. I have taken that name, Two, from my number in that ancient order of Celebrimbor Cabalist of which at least one other polite member of the pen was also among that group. I do not wish to drop na….” At the mention of “polite member of the pen” the door swung silently open. The room was as I expected and being new I was somewhat nervous. Melba was absent but the silent Portrait of Zool made me uneasy. The desk piled high with papers and the messy overstuffed file cabinets made feel at home as that was how my office was most of the time. I do not have any mannequin limbs however. I placed the clock in the empty spot left by missing Grandfather Clock, hoping that the respected? Mr. Wyvern would like and accept it. I dug into my backpack looking for my application. I could not find it! Did I forget it? I looked in all my pockets. I looked in my wallet. Where did I leave it? I began to panic. The Portrait of Zool gazed at me. I methodically went through my backpack again. I open each zippered compartment and removed everything then I carefully put every thing back in its place. I found it in the last place I looked. That is normally how it happens; you find what you are looking for in the last place you look. I wanted this application to the pen to be anything but ordinary so I looked some more after I had found it. Where would I put the application? All the real estate on the desk was otherwise occupied. There was a childlike ink drawing of a horse, beautiful in its simplicity, as childlike drawings are beautiful, on the wall. “Should I post it on the wall?” I said aloud. Thinking of putting a nail in the door and not knowing if the walls were alive like the door I thought better of it. I found some tape in the clutter on the desk. I taped it to the clock. Two’s Application Infant novice, Will be Mistaken. He thinks, The pale is from lack Of light like the white Skin of a Japanese concubine or other Nocturnal things. Cynic? No, not yet He may never be But he is already, Conditioned to make Thought easy. Mind jumps, To what he already Understands. Not her. Not yet. Confuse costume with regalia as a boy Plays soldier shooting The bad guys. Will, he imagine the mascara And miss the eyes? See The dark lips and not hear. The Word. She moves all Day in the summer sun But it doesn’t burn her Like the farmer or rancher Or lifeguard or the pan Man on the corner. Cool Translucent pale remains. Will, he see inside to Outside? Or only Out Side. With her all begins inside. Shines out brighter Than bright daylight. The pale Surges out from the core. It can be blinding, blinding. I pulled an easy chair over next to the big desk. I sat down to wait for the Elder Reptile.

Bill went into the house to ask Arlene for a can to keep the worms he and Clay were going to dig for fishing. Clay went to get the shovel. Arlene found a bright and shiny tin that had cling peaches in it just last night. She didn't ask Bill what had happened to the can they used for worms yesterday. Bill liked the new can. It was nice and clean. He went out the front door and pulled it tight behind him. There wasn't any screen door to keep out the flies. He ran around the side of the house to the back. They were going to dig in the shade of the hedge that ran along fence by the chicken coop. Behind the chicken coop was a small pasture that separated the house from the mountain. At night Bill could see the mountain growing darker and the trees disappearing in the failing light as he lay in bed and looked out the window in Clay's room. It got so dark it scared him. It wasn't like at home where there were streetlights. Clay slept out back in Jack's room whenever Bill came up to stay for a few days. Clay wasn't at the hedge with the shovel yet. Bill looked for a good place to dig, where the dirt was dark and moist. When Clay came up with the shovel he asked, "Did she want to know where the can was we used yesterday?" "No?" Bill said. He had forgot about that can. He didn't know where it was. "Good." said Clay. Clay started to dig about two feet from the spot Bill thought was good. He would spade out a big clump of grass and shake the dirt loose. Then he and Bill would pick the worms from the loose dirt. Bill liked to find the great big night crawlers, for the great big fish he thought he might catch. There weren't to many of them. Sometimes one of the big crawlers would get stuck in the roots of the clump of grass. When Bill went to pull it out it usually broke in half. Bill was always disappointed when that happened, but Clay knew that the big night crawlers were too big for the hook anyway. They always put the clump of grass back in the hole it came from. Clay knew his mom would holler at him if they left holes in the yard. When they had about twenty-five good worms they put some of the loose dirt in the can on top of them. Then they went around to the back door of the house to get their poles. They kept them just inside the door by the stairs that went down to the cellar. They walked down the road to the bridge where they were going to fish. It was a shorter walk across the field but it had rained in the night and the field was all soft and muddy. Bill liked walking down the road with Clay. The morning sun felt good on his arms. He liked coming up to Arlene's. He liked seeing his cousins. Arlene was his mom's sister

No, No, No, Growing up is the realization of a dream. A man or woman (or an animal?) is nothing with a dream.

Happybuddha, I would humbly suggest the original title is best. Sink

Me Broom's Spell Cucumbersome I grabeled up the stair Whot a pickle, falling about me feet At landing, I phound the door to me lair I threw her open, and whot did I greet But me room, hearthless, and grimwold vacant I turned on her light, and upper warmer I shouted, but the silence ran rampant Rock like, nothing cold move or alarm her I stood stiff, glazing blankly down the halls Then on came the blower, and some warm sound Unknown strife glowing offer empty walls Me ears heard it as I think thought came round I shook me loose, the fearful spell was broke How quickly it fled as the furnace spoke