David J. Thompson Has Fallen Into a Sex Pit and He Can't Get Up

Every Place Except Bed

I need a place to crash for a few days,

he says as he shoves a 12-pack of High Life

into my hands and steps past me into my apartment.

Nice to see you, too, I tell him, as he throws

his suit jacket on the coffee table and sits down

in my favorite chair. I take out two beers,

walk the rest out to the fridge. I was having

a little thing with this new girl at work, he yells,

told Heather I had to work late on some quarterly reports.

Nothing serious, you know, just drinks and sex

a few times, but tonight I didn’t show up at her place  

like we planned, so the little cooz called the house

and when I get home Heather goes all apeshit

on my ass yelling, You’re not going to get away

with this about a million times loud enough

to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood

I got nowhere else to go. You don’t mind, do you?

No worries, I yelled back, shaking my head,

reaching past the Maker’s Mark for the Jim Beam

in the cabinet over the sink. You need some bourbon?

Sex Pit by David J. Thompson

There’s still a few minutes left in the game

when he starts snoring. I look over at him,

mouth wide open, sprawled on the recliner,

shake my head, wonder how long he’s going

to stay.  Not long before he got married

he told me one night in a bar he’d spent

the weekend fucking and doing cocaine

in New York with his old college girlfriend.

Heather’s great, he explained, everywhere

except in bed. She’s a real Catholic, so

she feels a little guilty about sex right now,

but that’ll get better after we’re married,

don’t you think? Of course, I said standing up

quickly and looking only at the tv over his shoulder.

I steadied myself with my hands on the table,

asked him if there was something he wanted

to hear on the jukebox.

Souls In Hell From Sex by photographer David J. Thompson

I get a pillow and a blanket off my bed, chuck them

on the couch, figure he’ll wake up some time to pee,

and make himself at home. I turn out the lights,

brush my teeth, get into bed, start thinking about

how I’m going to feel at work in the morning.

I roll over on my back and say, Oh, shit, out loud.

I can’t help but think about the rehearsal dinner

and the little toast I made.  I don’t remember it exactly,

something about how great they were together,

how happy they’d always be, a little lie I always thought

I’d get away with until now.

The Worst Principal In America

                                                               A, B, C, D, E, F-CK

Or, How the Bullshit of Being Afraid of Lawsuits Lead to a Rape and Attempted Rape Within Five Days of Each Other at a Disgraceful Public School

By A Special Education Teacher with the Worst Principal in America*

With Art by Jihane Mossalim

*Who Shall Remain Anonymous, with ghost writing help from Hug Honor of Modern Histories & Philosophies Magazine (Editing:  Roo Bardookie & Peabody Winston)

Good Intentions Paving the Way to Hell

     I was happily living the dream life in this tropical paradise.  The tropical paradise of postcards where the “locals” say aloha to you and smile if you tip them.  They really mean fuck you, thanks for coming, now go home you fat, white punk and your dirty, spoiled kids.  That is really just about anyplace where you get tourists and Americans.

      Living the life of tennis, snorkeling, hikes in the mountain jungle, the malls, walks in the park, watching my kid growing up surfing, paddling, also playing tennis, and doing great in one of the too many private schools, because 75% or more of the public schools in this paradise suck, filled with twinkie filled arrogant teachers, stupid kids, and administrators who are part of the Yakuza dream. Oh yes, they funnel money back to Japan, as they have taken over this school system and run it like their own private mafia.  It’s really not just a couple of girls that got raped within five days of each other, it’s all of us taxpayers, parents, kids trying to learn, teachers who want to help, and the community in general. No reach around, no smoke after the act, no breakfast, and you sure as hell aren’t going to spend the night afterwards.  Very prison rape-y.

     So, I am cruising the island, listening to parrots and roosters, when I say to my wife, “I am done with teaching and coaching our daughter, I would like to try and do the same things with kids in the DOE. Since I have degrees in Special Education, I should see if they could use my help.”

     By the way, fuck the local mentality of thinking because you weren’t born someplace that you aren’t as good as people, or saying fuck off to people who do come in and try to help kids. When you have a personal agenda or your adult political agenda is one that is placed above the welfare of students, you’re a hindrance to not only the good intentions, but the reality of the kids getting short changed.  Especially if you are in a position of power and people are genuinely trying to do good.  Let me sugar coat this, as I have done so far, “Go to hell!”

     Ah, but I’m venting.  Let me take a quick coffee break and calm the fuck down.  Here is a picture by friend (and I mean friend of education), Jihane Mossalim:

You might think that I am making up constantly pulled fire alarms, kids making other kids fight against their will like caged matches at recess, our own kids spray painting private parts and fuck-you’s all around the campus, kicking doors as hard as they can and running away, and now the rape and attempted rape (of a special needs girl), to get back at this school for the botched job they did when a teacher was falsely accused within two weeks of starting the job of using bad language.  Fuck that!  But, here is the kicker.  I wasn’t even on the campus at the time the mastermind decided to say I had done this.  Dirty language in this literary masterpiece is one thing, but I don’t cuss in the classroom.  The VP and the principal went after me full bore, while I was training in my beloved special education IEP crap.  IEPs for the most part are a bunch of bullshit that you never teach like in the classroom.  You kind of inherit them through osmosis, but it is the actual kid that you work with, not 3 out of 4 chances-with 80% accuracy.

     But, do recall that this is the place where federal judges had to step in because low lives here on this tropical paradise, were sending their  kids and “loved” ones to the top of a mountain home road to wallow in their own filth, and be fed apple sauce.  I have seen this fenced in area with miles of housing that is basically a prison for the mentally ill, mentally retarded, and those with any affliction that might cramp the lifestyle of our beach and BBQ going families.  Yea, these assholes had to be federally mandated to take care of their family members in ways that are on par with other families getting sub par public educations in one of the worst school districts in America.  A shining light of hope in the middle of the Pacific.

     We bend over backwards for your twisted and fucked up kids, while the regular kids who just want an education get bullied and harassed, and sometimes treated like shit by the actual teachers.

     Baby, there ain’t nuthin’ to do but give them back their own medicine.  The final two months of this year are going to be spent in silence, answering questions with yes and no, avoiding the telephone and email, and basically keeping them in the dark and running secrets like they did to me and the entire school to include the other students and the female teachers who were not informed about the rapist, who happened to also pick up charges of kidnapping using zip ties to secure the girls, and happened to have a knife in his book bag to boot.  This was criminality at its worst, special needs kid or not.  This principal put students at risk, teachers at risk, all to avoid lawsuits.  And, if she was following protocol of the DOE, what kind of fucked up protocol is it where the criminals are under a cloak of invisibility to return to the school after three days, to try and rape again with nothing in place to protect anybody, as he was free to roam and rape without anyone knowing.  Of course the father of the second girl wanted to kill somebody.

Roo Bardookie You're the One

Roo Bardookie

The God Spoon

Now I am going to drink coffee, and if you don’t mind will you indulge me and let me tell you about the man that drank some Coors in 6th grade, and just finished up on Thursday with some dark beers from Whole Foods?  I passed out some good cheeses, some good for you jalapeno chips, and poured the dark beers for my “friends” at the DHTC. 

I drank from 1976-2015.  Wait a minute, I thought that was when I was a championship tennis player.  40 years it was winning in singles and doubles, mixed and teams, medals and trophies, gold ball I gave to mom, silver and a gumball machine I gave to my friend’s kid.

No you stupid bastard, it was 40 years of drinking.  And what else did you spoon on?  Cigarettes, cigars, chew tobacco, marijuana, hash, speed, crank, cocaine, LSD, mushrooms, Everclear, vodka, valium, ecstasy, Jagermeister, wine, and tequila.  How about some liqueurs?

But, you helped kids.  You coached.  You taught.  You mentored.  You got them jobs, you taught them how to succeed, you gave away your trophies.

You went to church, you raised a daughter, you never forgot the family, you prayed, you got degrees, you got certified to teach and coach, you married and took care of old folks and special needs kids, and animals.

I think I wore a mask, so that you could not see the monster me, the real me.  The wormy eyed, black soul thing, that lurked just behind the mask of volunteers, the mask of giving, the mask of caring, the mask of sharing, the mask of do-gooder, of hero, of healer, wheeler-dealer, standing at the edge about to jump.  Have faith, have faith my friend.

Now, I am going to drink coffee, eat my wife’s vegan meals, exercise and talk to God again.  Without my mask.  And by the way, I am going to do these role modeling things, these hero things, these leader things, differently.  How so?

I took off my mask.  And The Who asked, “Can you see the real me?  Can you? Can You?  Can you see the real me?”

I cut the string, and threw the mask away today.

The Escort & Jihane Mossalim 

Poems and Photography By David J. Thompson

It Would Be Like Poetry

Watcha reading? he asks.
I look down from  my porch
to the sidewalk. It’s the old guy
who lives down the street.
He always wears a Tigers cap,
lives, I think, with his daughter
and her family down the street.
Oh, I say and hold up the book.
It’s a biography of an English writer
named Rupert Brooke. He cocked
his head, put his hands on his hips.
Yeah, he said slowly, grinning, nodding.
I heard of him. His granddaughter was a whore
in Papaeete. She had pictures of him
all over her room. Good looking guy.
I fucked her once. Everybody on ship said
it would be like poetry. I guess it was a joke.
I didn’t think she was that great.
He shook his head, put his hands
in his pockets. Take it easy, he said,
gotta get home for dinner, and walked away.
I think he started to whistle.

"Hominy" photograph by David J. Thompson

The Silence She Left Me

In the weeks before she moved out for good,
we were fighting about everything – bills,
housework, families- even Ike and Tina Turner.
I said that Ike was the real genius behind them,
she said that he was nothing without Tina’s talent.
And besides, she’d yell from another room,
Ike was a real dickhead. He used to beat Tina up.
I’d mute the ballgame I was watching and say
real loud, No wonder. Do you think Tina was easy
to live with all those years? That always shut her up.
She’d turn the vacuum or the dishwasher back on,
and I’d go back to watching football.

All I found was a short note saying she’d had enough
of my bullshit, not to try to call her anytime soon.
I loosened my tie, started wondering right out loud why
the hell that crazy bitch would ever leave me while
I took the last Pabst from the fridge. I sagged my way back
to the table, kept on asking the empty kitchen if I was
really some kind of abusive asshole like Ike Turner
until I realized all my beer was gone, and the silence
she left me was the answer I couldn’t stand to hear.

"Bulldog" photograph by David J. Thompson

The Top Of The Ride

I can’t believe how friggin’ early it gets dark now,
one of the guys said as they walked out of the plant
into the gray parking lot. Goddamn cold, too,
one of them added as they separated toward their cars.
Take it easy, man, they said, or More OT next week,
and waved stiff-armed good-byes, heads bent
against the wind. He got in his little Toyota truck,
started it up, and rubbed his gloves for a few seconds
in front of the steering wheel as if that would help.
He turned on a Springsteen tape, and told himself,
even if it was Friday night and he was tired as hell,
positively no beer till he got all the way home.

He bought a 6 pack of Miller Lite on sale and a bag
of Doritos at the gas station that overlooked the river.
He didn’t hesitate to pop one open before he was out
of the parking lot, took a long swallow, then another.
He finished it about halfway across the bridge, just
when the heat finally started to kick in.  He started
to sing along with Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love,
wondered how far down below the Hudson was,
what it would be like in the truck - suspended, whirling -
before it crashed into the ice, and reached for another beer.

Stopped at the light across from the county fairgrounds,
he pulled another can from the ring. He looked out
into the darkness, fresh beer at his lips, thought about
riding the ferris wheel there with his high school girlfriend,
a month after they graduated - her hair, her smile, tanned legs –
and the taste of Juicy Fruit gum while kissing her at the top
of the ride while passengers were loaded until the car lurched
and started to descend. He put his forehead against the cool window,
closed his eyes, heard her laughter spinning in the summer night.

As he pulled away through the intersection, he remembered how
she stopped answering his phone calls in October when she went
away to college, and then he got the letter that said she needed
some space, hoped they would always be friends. He speeded up
when he hit the four-lane highway, wondered where she might be
these days. Last he heard she was divorced and living with a cop
and his kids down near Boca Raton. Nice fucking space, he said
to himself as he groped around on the passenger seat for the bag
of chips. God damnit. Where is it?  he asked aloud, but it had fallen
to the floor, somewhere down there in the dark just out of his reach.

"Read More" photograph by David J. Thompson

Heart Poem and Illustration For Valentine's Day

I will be 47 years old Superbowl Sunday, but parts of me will only be 3 or 5 years old, depending on which of my surgeons you confer with. Blade Runner and The Terminator are less science fiction movies that documentaries to me these days, and it is fair to say having alien technology inside your body does change not only your physiognomy but your psychology and mentality in certain ways, sometimes ways one isn't even aware of for many years. It also effects those close to you. For instance, my heart clicks. Like a clock. You might wonder how long it takes to tune that phenomenon out of your daily existence, or if it just wears on one in eventually maddening ways like Chinese water torture or Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." The answer is both. For the first several weeks, even months after artificial valve surgery, your heart feels like it is going to pound out of your chest. Most of this is probably attributable to the sound. Typically one probably wouldn't be aware of the beating of one's heart, but being able to hear each beat makes it unignorable. 

Heart poem by Thomas L. Vaultonburg, illustrated by Jenny Mathews of Rockford Illustrating

I am torn between writing more about what it's like to go through open-heart surgery and have artificial parts surgically implanted inside one's body, and the lasting changes that makes in one's life, or just writing about what it's like to collaborate with an artist like Jenny Mathews. Mostly I'm just happy to wake up day after day and see she has drawn something new. In this case I am also happy to be able to collaborate in the process. Eventually I may write more about the ongoing process of becoming a cyborg, but for the most part I just find myself grateful and happy to be alive.

If you'd like to see new work from my life and creative partner Jenny Mathews almost every day, follow her Instagram. Go ahead and like a bunch of things there and maybe buy some of her art so she'll make me chicken wings this Sunday. Please Pinterest or share our work if you find it meaningful.