Exercise in Mortality

If you're like me you blow your nose in the shower.
If you're like me, sometimes you overdo it.
Want an exercise in mortality?
Hold your hand out and let your bleeding nose drip into your palm.
See that bright red bloom spreading?
Watch the next drop double into the first.
Watch the third, the fourth.
Bright red because you're still alive.
Get the feeling that if you didn't do anything,
In thirty minutes they'd know downstairs that something was wrong;
They'd find you in a cold shower, bloodless and pale.


Step back and let water splash into your hand.
Your red blood dissolves and dilutes until Kool-Aid coloured.
Your nose tries to keep up, but the water flows like time;
Tilt your hand and let your blood hit the tiles.
Watch long enough and bright stars of fresh red explode between your feet,
Chasing the diluted pink with a droplet's red glare.
But the more water you spend the more you blend;
And the cliche continues,
And your crimson cocktail;
Water, time, and life,
Goes down the drain.

The White Deer 2

    Part two of my serial in an attempt to get me to finish something I started. Here's a link to Part 1 if'n you need it: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/09/im-still-drunk.html

2

     I'm sitting on the tailgate of my truck waiting for Brian to snap shut his 1990's phone and teach me how to shoot a compound bow. Everything's here--his bow, his arrows, which I hope not to lose, and some beer, which I plan to lose down my pie-hole, and a little foam cube about 20 yards away that we're supposed to hit with said arrows.

     I don't know shit about bow hunting except that an arrow will kill a deer. 

     I reckon he's talking to his girlfriend because he's waving his hand around and cussing. He shoots a glance at me every so often to make sure I'm not getting all of it, but I am. I try to act casual and pick up the bow laying on the gate. He eyes me under his hat and finally sees me seeing, and hearing him, and walks around the corner of his house.

     I don't really care about his love life, but I don't quite get how a guy like him--bald, need I say more--could even get a chick to fuck him. Maybe it's the awful earful he's giving her that keeps her coming back. The old saying, treat a queen like a whore and a whore like a queen never seemed to fit so well. Not that she's a queen. The one time I made a pass at her, she ratted me out to him.

     So now I'm left all alone with his crazy rig thanks to her. I look down at the bow and can't hardly believe what the hell these things have come down to..or up to I guess. It's the regular old compound configuration with the ex-ed up string wrapped around two cammed pulleys on each end of the struts which are bolted to the mainspringy arm. There's a huge phallic counterbalance thing sticking out the front.

     There's also a wrist strap on the bow so you don't drop the thing. And if you think you'll hurt your finger tips yanking the 'string' back, you're in for a treat, because now we have to use something called a release which is this thing you hook to the 'string' and use to pull it back to fire. It has a damn trigger. When you get the bow drawn, and your shot lined up, you just pull the trigger to shoot.

     Well, damn. We're back to what I like to do best, pulling the trigger and shooting stuff. I'm looking at all this gear, nursing a beer, and waiting. I pick up the bow out of its clamshell-like plastic case just to feel its heft. Professor Baldy's no where to be seen so I hold it up and check out the sights. The three of them glow brightly thanks to fiber optics which was how I was gonna get rich with my pre-lit Christmas tree invention that someone else got around to sooner than I did.

     The bow's heavier than my sad little recurve I brought with me. Brian laughed at it. What a dick. Of course his bow's heavier, it's got all this crap on it. I do a half-assed test pull on the 'string' without the release. It feels like I'm pulling on a guy wire to a telephone pole. Damn. Brian steps around the corner.

     -Don't dry fire it, he says, -It'll fuck it up.

     -I wasn't. I was just lookin'.

     He walks over phoneless now, holds his hand out for the bow which of course I hand to him. He takes it and grabs the release off the tailgate and an arrow.

     -How's the ol' lady? I ask.

     -We ain't married.

     -Not yet.

     -We ain't gonna get married either, he says nocking an arrow and attaching the release to the 'string'.

     -You might as well be, I say, watching him point the arrow skyward then rotate the bow horizontally while at the same time drawing the string back smoothly, effortlessly. -You hate each other enough.

 He's supposed to laugh and shank the arrow into the ground, but he doesn't. He holds at full draw then 'fires'.

     The arrow takes off with a snap and whacks into the target, just about dead center of the 7 inch Santa Claus paper plate he taped to the target cube. Die, papa, die is all I can think.

     -See there? Nothing to it. He picks up another arrow out of the little stack of identical arrows and nocks it as well. -But you ain't shit until you can shoot a group. He fires and the next one whacks right beside the first, and the third sinks in just under them two. In the rifle business we call that a three shot group and it looks like he's done this before.

     -Not bad.
     -Not bad? It ain't as easy as it looks. You'll see.
     Untold, I set off down the line to retrieve the arrows from the block. Santa's smiling face has three holes in it grouped fairly close together. The arrows are sunk in pretty good so I flip the target on its back and step on it to yank them out. The bow can fling 'em.
     I saunter back to the tailgate and plunk them down in the pick up sticks stack. Brian takes off the release and hands it to me. -Your turn, he says.
     I wrap the velcro strap around my wrist and let it dangle there while I pick up his bow. I'm leaning against the tailgate and slowly choose an arrow and nock it right where the little tab is on the 'string' for the release. Brian starts coaching. -All right, we're twenty yards, so use the top dot. Once you get the peep sight, get it lined up on the top one.
     -the yellow one?
     -I don't know what damn colour it is. It's on top.
     -Gotcha.
     -Now hook the release on--right there--and draw it on back.
     I raise the bow and start my draw. -Whatever you do, don't pull that trigger until you're full draw and ready to shoot, Brian says.
     I pull back on the string and it fucking doesn't budge. I push with my left arm as hard as I can, and pull with my right arm as hard as humanly possible, and I can feel the red-hot start to climb up my neck soon to be wrapping around my entire face. The only thing happening is a whole lot of shaking.
     -Jesus, dude. Brain's not looking down range for my arrow to hit, he's looking square at me now.
     -Hang on, dammit. I rest up a second and then go again. With the grunt and yank, I get the thing, the damn 'string' about halfway back before I give out. -Fuck! What's this thing set at?
     -Sixty pounds or so.
     -Jesus H. Christ, man.
     -Here, look. Do what I did. Point the thing straight up in the air and then just rotate it down. Kinda lock and push away with your left, and kinda pull with your right.
     I shake my head but try it again. I point the thing skyward and say a prayer to the puny arm god. I start the roll down and can hear the grunt and feel the strain from the center of my clenched ass to my locked jaw and all points in between. Now, I feel the cams rotating at the ends of the spars, and I feel the arrow move closer and closer to my chin.
     I see the peep sight twisting its way to my eye and then my elbow cracks! Speaks for the first time with an audible snap. The shock of hearing my elbow's voice and the painful jolt--somehow I touch the trigger off and send a half drawn arrow up and out of sight with a weak twang. My arm's falling to my side and I'm trying to untrundle my arm from this thing, just to set it down.
     -Dude! You're gonna kill one of the Mexicans!
     It's true, the neighbor's across the hay field and pond may not be from around here. I just hope they weren't out in their yard!
     -Holy shit! I laugh. -Did you see where it went?
     -No, Idgit.
     -Fuck that bow, I say smiling, placing the heavy ass thing back on top of its open case.
     -Dude, you better stick with a rifle.Or eat a hamburger.
     I roll my eyes. -You can't shoot a rifle in city limits.
     -Shit, no one'll care around here.
     I start to say, but I don't. -Maybe, I say shrugging.
     I walk around to the passenger side door and pull out my recurve and take my place by Brian on the tailgate again.
     -No, says Brian.
     -Yes. I grab another ten dollar arrow off the stack and nock it in my bow where it looks like it's square to the fuzzy rest. I wrap my three fingertips around a real, honest-to-god bow string and pull the thing back all the way until the string is on my cheek and I can see where the arrow'll go when I let it loose.
    Which I do, and it burrows into and under the fricking sod and grass five yards from the cube.  -Dammit! I say, and grab another arrow.
     This time I walk up a few steps, not quite halving the distance, draw, shoot, and hit Santa's fat, smiling face. -There! Goddamn it!
     -Yeah. Here, Brain says as he tosses me another arrow. I chunk that one just off the paper plate. -Let's get another target. Something bigger!
     -Good idea, I say, playing the straight man.
     -I don't have anymore Santa Clauses.
     -I don't care, all I need is something white.
     -That's good. I got plenty of paper plates. He disappears into house and quickly pops back out with a plate and some duct tape. He pulls the arrows out and pulls Santa off and attaches a bigger, pizza stained paper plate to the cube. -There. Now shoot three.
     I'm already ready with three more arrows. Brian skips past in front of me and, frankly, cowers behind me before I get another arrow nocked up. I ignore the burning in my elbow and slowly shoot one ten-dollar arrow after another into the white plate from about the fifty foot mark where I'd walked up to.
     -What the fuck? It's in your blood.
     -Racist!
     -Don't hate.
     -I have shot this thing before...a basketball here, mailbox there.
     -It's legal. It'll kill a deer.
     -Not bad, eh?
     -Not too shabby. If you can get the deer to stand that close.
     I smile. -Not a problem. All's I need is a good stand.