2 New Shorts

I was born with a perspective problem. I prospect for my perspective through the sanguine application of drugs and alcohol. A miner’s life is full of phantom veins, long days underground and a love of dynamite. You’ve got to blast through the bedrock if you want to get to the color. Undiscovered flake is a terrible thing to the miner. He’s a self contained engine with worker bee insides chipping away for the kernels that keep the lights on. There’s a problem with sinking too many shafts- they start to collapse on one another. My pan is an enameled table top on which I splay my fruits in this make shift mercantile. I have my mother’s old 45s and they spin me through my time in the mine. I do my work at night, a candlelight vigil for the last unfound vein. Nina Simone mines with me some nights, Shirley Bassey too. The mine always has room for others, but miners are a solitary lot- a tactile bunch, not prone to consorting with other miners. After all, one miner can never show another miner his claim, not if he ever wants to keep his treasure. At the end of my night in the mine I draw myself elaborate maps to make sure I can find my way back. I use dotted lines and sometimes need a legend because my drawing gets shaky that late. Then, I fold it up as small as I can and hide it near my pan. Most times though I never find my maps, but I always find my way. The dinner bell punching time clock- my throat is dry, my nostrils singed, and blood bubbles form on my upper lip.

So tired he can’t drive straight. The rabbit thump warnings of his tires on the shoulder began their sweet lulling serenade at mile marker 30. He counts his miles in crushed packs on the dash. She’s laid out on the backseat, and he can see her faint twitching smile in the rear view. Tossing one more cigarette out the window, seeing it explode into ground swell fireworks, he fixes his eyes on the illuminated road 20 yards in front of them, and keeps going.