Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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A Short Story

Complacent Denial: A Missed Connection
Ten blocks of downhill action marred by only one near collision with the careless driver of a rusted El Camino, I come to the end of Garnet Street, the business strip of the crunchy community of Pacific Beach, the boardwalk and beach a half-block ahead. Grinding wood upon pavement I clap the tail and catch the board as it rabbit-hops into the air, eyes rising ahead, that which aligns in my sights captivating me.
On the horizon the full orb of the sun has turned a charred orange, hovering seemingly a few inches above the gaping aquatic skyline. Her gait is that of a confident feminist, her body not unlike a lanky yet curvaceously blessed model who realized the benefits of pilates and proper nutrition. Bleached blonde hair with auburn roots, in a pink cherry-blossomed bikini-top and tan Hollister capris, the breeze lending motion to her stillness as she comes to a halt directly ahead of me as if coming against some invisible wall.
I continue walking forward, as silhouetted within the waning sun her head turns, blue eyes luminescent, sparkling akin to the sea while contrasting violently with the deep solar hue. Our eyes connect as I mutually come to a halt. A moment is shared, an unspoken introduction breaking the ice, silently tangible vibes flowing, drawing us together into the promise of what is to come. Curiosity breaks, a mood of blustering anticipation dawning as she turns her body to face me. Her right hand resting naturally upon her waist atop the curve of the hourglass, the left gently lifting and holding up her hair, rays of light twinkling through, sparking off a diamond earring as she shifts her weight to her lead leg, body flowing likewise at the movement.
As moonlight hitting a gargoyle I break the stone of my immobility and take a step forward, her eyes drawing me in. Thoughts interrupted I halt, a vibration followed by the echoing of Beethoven’s Ninth pulls my concentration away from the moment. Fuck. I mouth “sorry” and know she can’t see it. Turning to the side, answering the phone, it is a customer who I can’t afford to lose, Maddie, who similarly represents an opportunity at experience, her recent semester in Italy having refined her allure considerably. Out of the corner of my eye I see her gaze drift to the ground as she glares towards me then forward. Walking off to the left and out of my sight she waves a reluctant goodbye with dainty fingertips over her shoulder, manicured nails flashing in the light as I admire her gait, appreciating the half-heel on her sandals and how her calves and above are perked, noticing the lack of a tan-line anywhere upon her gently toned back.
Rushing through the requisite pleasantries the phone call finally ceases. I drop and hop onto my skateboard, propelling towards the boardwalk, busting a fakie ollie over the curb, sticking it and continuing on. Rolling south searching in vain, I halt at the ferris-wheel on Mission Beach, my eyes following the red, white, and blue bulbs of light as they circulate round, chasing one another so fast trails are left dancing amidst the air.
She’s disappeared and the wonder of the moment collapses around me, fleeting wonder rising up amidst the dust of fallen opportunity. I ignore an incoming call, feeling the last wireless lassoing to have prevented my running wild into a real-life experience, as I skate off in search of another down the boardwalk.
Handing off my skateboard with a grin and a glare alongside a twenty to the valet, I adjust the collar to my polo shirt, tuck my chain, and enter Level III, a trendy lounge with a glassed wall facing the beach. The bartender recognizes me from the gym with an inviting smile. She looks like Jennifer McCarthy only younger and without the silicone. I smile back and take a seat. Ordering a scotch on the rocks, I feel her warm gaze upon my back as I turn to take in the sunset. The first sip flows down my throat, warming my stomach as I absorb the blushing sky, the red sun sliding beneath the distant waves of the horizon as I turn and segue into conversation.

The Naked Reaction Index: an article preview

An article I've been pitching around is "The Naked Reaction Index", which involves the initial reaction one has upon seeing another nude for the first time, not entirely unlike the unwrapping of a present. Now there are reactions beneath those which I'll outline here, but if you have standards, those of the "eww" "ech" and "eek!" assortment will never be encountered.
*First off is that of a normal physique, acceptable, just better than average. "Oh."
*When the garbs drop to the floor and natural beauty alongside light but symmetrical muscular definition alongside body shape is revealed, one may be motivated to emit an "Oh My..."
*The final level is that of direct effort and subsequent achievement, when natural beauty is augmented by physical training, dieting, and superficial primping like keeping a tight trim, that of "Oh My God!"
... What level are you?

Business Farmers

In a recent discussion with a friend it became apparent to me the nature of sales through the word usage I've been pursuing in regards to my salesman friend's pursuit of his leads. A first meeting is considered to be a seed, in which the idea, the concept, of his product is planted within the minds of the soil, the people. Meetings following this initial introduction are to be considered watering the plant, which shall grow as the knowledge base and need recognition take root. The final process in sales as in farming is that of the harvest, when the client is closed, the plant turned into a commodity, and the sale made. And so while farming is a steadily dying industry in the domestic sense, at least we can take comfort in the fact that its concepts live on through the harvesting of profits from the crop of humans stomping upon and above the soil which was once cultivated.

Make Kerouac Proud, Run and Live on the Road

Raindrops packing upon my skin as I stretch to completion, the recognition that a run is much like a life floods to the surface of my reality, a thought percolating throughout, words dripping later on as I begin to laugh for no reason, adrift in the nomad's high as I remove my shirt to appreciate the clearness of the sky contrasting the precipitation, finishing the final of four or so street miles. The campus of WPI was the playground for this particular late-night jaunt, wrought with uphill necessities and blessed by the opportunity at many more. I've learned two things through running: A-Taking the most difficult path comprehensible produces the greatest amount of satisfaction, results, and from a pain is pleasure perspective, is fucking tight; 2_When it feels as though another step is impossible it is time to throw caution to the weak and sprint all silly like, after which the previous pace is nothing, not of note, simple; 3, Listen, whatever, I lied get over it/ It's okay to get a bit lost here and there along the way, adventure is learning and knowledge is power children, so long as the pace is kept as time hasn't patience nor should we. MJW.
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A Day in the Life

June the 13th. 12am: Arriving to my apartment having parlayed with my homie Ryan. I stretch. 12-12:35: I run three miles on the streets bathed in darkness while listening to my iPod shuffle, on shuffle, although coming upon "I'm looking through you" by the Beatles listen to it seven times while returning home. 12:35-12:45, showering, gripping and ripping. 12:55-1-45: Latino night at the boiler room, a RedBullandvodka, a song heard while at my barber shop that morning getting faded is played, the Spanish version of "Mrs. Officer" by Lil' Wayne essentially, but classic style. 1:50: I encounter a particularly striking African American girl, her name: Marcella. 1:55: Burning with Russ, I witness the outbreak of violence, the smack of the first strike landing upon teeth entirely audible. 2:15-11: Incandescent dreamy slumber. 11:30-1:30- A glorious work-out sesh at World Gym Worcester. 2-3: Submitting a Shady Transaction in Southern California to Anderbo, an online literary journal, and the Arch Literary Journal. 4-10: I assume the role of Jack to produce cash; he's a waiter. 10-x Pushing it to the limit. Rock and Roll. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

The Flow, Induced.

After midnight training is often essential. Eminem’s new cd Relapse is incredible. Track 12; “Stay Wide Awake”, his greatest lyrical delivery, ever: 5lbs in each hand I shadow-box. Track 8; “Same Song & Dance”, a haunting beat by Dre: Bokken (solid cherry-tree wood katana) training alongside nunchucks. Track 2; “3AM”, a unique flow and illustrative lyrics: Shinai (bamboo kendo sword) training, weightless shadowboxing, weighted, and without. Southpaw feels more comfortable but I train evenly nonetheless. Adequately flowing, a short jog is necessary. A cool off. A shower. A mental warm-up in the form of this blog, and ready to begin the continued crafting of the current piece of short fiction, The Recovery, through a bit of intense mental training, equally paramount and so tanta- to the physical. Rock and Roll.