Universal Atlas | A Survey Of Our Wares

Sestina Two

Early in the morning a radio breaks the night’s silence “Last night I dreamed
I was a child out where the pines grow tall…” Early. 4:32 a.m. The darkness
Of night tinted in the greenish blue of the alarm clock light. Clocks. Cocks.
The dying rooster in the Zona Maya, coughing it’s daybreak alarm, always
Two hours premature, I inevitably laughed, it resounded drunk and earnest,
And with no more hen-houses to invade, it lived to torment the conquistadors.

As you get out of bed do this – sing your song, sing a song of ruthless conquistadors
Spreading a plague, sing of toothbrush and toiletries, sing the dream you dreamed.
And afterward as you greet the sun, oh hallowed burning sphere, laugh in earnest.
How did the torchbearers occupy themselves in the hours before the darkness?
With song of course, blathered or chirped, soothing yet cautious, always
Deep in the pocket of an unwritten groove. Observe the iron weather-vane cocks

Spinning in the dawn wind. Squeaky, grinding, cast iron replacing ancient cocks
Crow, hardwired to our biology over thousands of years. Farmers, kings, conquistadors,
All woken by the proud foul. In your primal brain, woven, programed, always.
In sleep comes the home invasions, now I must even shut the cat door. I’ve dreamed
Of landscapes and implausible choreographies, someone needs to chide the darkness,
It’s become too full of itself, but then again who can blame a repository? Earnest

Dreams. Awake the vivid images twist in some surreal landscape. I fall back to earnest
sleep – or somewhere in-between. Dawn light through the blinds. What is it about cocks?
Half asleep, half awake, mind still in the dream place and I stiff as a pine. Off in darkness
A man crouches, blowing on sparks in a bird’s nest of bark shavings. Lost conquistadors
May soon upon him stumble, one kicks a pebble into a puddle or have you dreamed
That tiny splash that now echoes from the hotel bathroom, a faucet drip can always

Keep me up at night. I always search for the pattern. The Morse Code echoing, always
In every hotel, motel bathroom into the dreams of travelers. A message, subtle, earnest,
Through pipes and plumbing, sings softly, “Wake! See the world around you!” I dreamed
Less once I reached the cenote. I swam among the shards and bones. The cocks
Fighting behind the palapa were ownerless, there were no modern conquistadors
Tossing pesos on the dirt. The souvenir pyramid, visible on nightstand despite darkness,

Reflecting the rays of light breaking through the blinds, but within it a perfect darkness.
Darkness deep within its heart and in the few seconds of real of twilight, always,
For as long as I could remember – the echoing, horrified screams of conquistadors.
How many times have you met your oppressor, legs akimbo, arms spread wide, earnest
Smile? The light stabs the bulletholes in this allegory. The invaders and their cocks
Stab brown-skinned Eves, in Edens so golden it’s all you’ve ever dreamed.

A limestone bed so porous that we dreamed – dreamed of numbers and darkness
Like scared children holding our cocks, cowering and alert. Always
The sacrifices made in earnest, turn gold into lead for conquistadors.

by Jeffrey Enright and Laurence Lillvik

Sestina One

We found a slimy piece of the godhead in an oyster shell,

Others kicked destinies into dust on the pavement,

Some tool-belt ace from Klamath Falls verily haunted

The Central Avenue 5 and dimes, the statues in the fountains,

The public restrooms down by the bus station, and the dirty

Water hot-dog cart out along the no-tell motel strip on the highway.


Never once did we see an off-ramp that beckoned us from the highway,

Though we spent a handful of frigid dusks parked behind the Shell

Waiting for any transmission to cut through the static, jagged and dirty.

Dirty and jagged: fingernails, the glass pipe, the stretch of pavement

Where our bedrolls stretched out in the city park before the fountains.

Waiting for anything, any transmission. A destiny. Waiting. Haunted.


I left their company, my thoughts icy, and when I found you I was haunted

Still. It’s the repetition of spectres that wears you down, a highway

Ghoul can only spook you so many times. Finally found a penny fountain

& I took up all those wishes in my hand, took from the pool, from Europa’s shell.

I took them up, a couple hundred of them, laid them out across the pavement.

Almost a thousand wishes now, placed in a shape – a star, brilliant and dirty.


I invite her to dance within my design, as her shadowy take on our dirty

Doings are broadcast from her smile into the frosty and somewhat haunted

Air. She spins and spits in the ritual twists, a giant moth upon the pavement

Fluttering in and around the flood lights bringing shape to the highway

Reststop. She and I then. Singing some cartoon theme song into a conch shell.

Vibrating hollow and flat like a broken kazoo. Trumpeting into broken water fountains.


They used to seek their holy orders on table-top jukeboxes, in soda fountains,

And down by the pond where the runoff smelled of somebody’s idea of dirty

Progress. We invite you here now, hand-wringing and shocked from shell,

Your shell – pulled from depth, forced to land by the thundering sea, haunted

by gulls and sandpipers, and into the bargain bin at the tourist trap off the highway.

And you now risen! Part gull/part waste – excrement shed toward the pavement.


I invite you to tour the splendid mosaics spewed upon our pavement,

“Anyone could do that,” knee-jerk scripture etched upon our fountains,

When really, what we could use is a flip-shined lacquered ebony highway

Stretching out from the place where we stand, restless and broke and dirty.

A blacktop two-way instruction manual that says “Go!”, and leaves us haunted.

Leaves us standing bare and anxious, hands holding only air and a totem shell.


So hold your ear to a shell, excavate the silent pavement,

For it is noble to stay haunted, haunting the plazas and public fountains

Sleeping out, broke and open, free and dirty, shucking oysters by the highway.

-Laurence Wilhelm Lillvik & Jeffrey Enright

Manual Nostalgia

fun with smith corona

fun with smith corona

Recipe For Cock Ale

Take eight Gallons of Ale; take a Cock and boil him well; then take four pounds of Raisins of the Sun well stoned, two or three Nutmegs, three or four flakes of Mace, half a pound of Dates; beat these all in a Mortar, and put to them two quarts of the best Sack; and when the Ale hath done working, put these in, and stop it close six or seven days, and then bottle it, and a month after you may drink it.[2]

Skullcrushing Hummingmix 003

Skullcrushing Hummingmix 003 by Skullcrushing Hummingbird on Mixcloud

Skullcrushing Hummingmix 002

Hummingmix 002 by Skullcrushing Hummingbird on Mixcloud

Skullcrushing Hummingmix 001

Hummingmix 001 by Skullcrushing Hummingbird on Mixcloud

Troutdale Kingdom 11 – Serialized Novel In Progress

Rawlings tries to get his bearings. He is sure he is in a very large building. Something in the drafts of the central air tell him there are other exits besides the one Huanatoca wants him to use. He presses his ear to the door. The same low rush of vented air pervades. But far within is a small dry scribbling noise. It would sound like someone writing with a pencil if the tempo weren’t so fast and regular. They could only be scratching series of lower case l’s or i’s. A code? Someone digging? But Rawlings, with his time-hewn professional instinct for such things, (concussed, grogged, and pre-pneumoniatic as he may be) senses the room is vacant. There is no subtle interruption to the central air’s current, no pulsingly black void of latent energy. A curtain cord swaying and dancing against the wall maybe. The fingers of a tree branch taking dictation against the outer wall? Rawlings decides to just barge in. The door is locked. No footsteps reply. No clothing rustles. But the scribbling becomes louder and faster. And another sound joins in: The gagged moaning sound. Only now it is high-pitched, guttural. ‘There is someone inside! We are trying to reach one another.’ Rawlings throws his shoulder into the door over and over. When he hears Huanatoca’s Phils squealing across the linoleum he pounds the door.
“Help! Helllllllp!”
When Huanatoca hits the hallway mouth at speed like a downfield fullback she looks like a jungle casual rhino on the rampage. As Rawlings oozes down the door in utter quivering horror hoping the symptom suite of quease, fever, and concussedness will take full and irrevocable sway of his neck-down in merciful antecedent to Huanatoca’s shoulders, knees, and bile, he is once again given an inexplicable moment of clarity; the sort of attachable memory of humming cluefulness which often attends the dispassionate moments when we are forced to be resigned to our fate. The greater chaff of extraneous thought is heaved to the air, blown then burned. Vital stalks of fact and priority remain. The sun catches one and then another. There is little time before destruction, oblivion. He is once again flying through the parkblock air and remembering the commemorative buckle Seven-Foot Slim had indicated with two outsized thumbs. Rawlings had been in Slim’s office for ten minutes. They had just completed a tour of the library. Slim is about to conclude a meandering exposition on what he would like to see Rawlings (that is Pauling) take from the voluntary/work-release library experience. It isn’t a stretch for Rawlings to play indifferent here but he doesn’t want to overdo it and have Slim notice and go on some corrective tangent when he seems about ready to conclude. Slim has told Rawlings about his enthusiasm for amateur rodeo. Every year, he explains, he competes in the Local’s Jamboree Division of the Molalla Buckaroo. To do so Slim takes June off from the library, packs his Ford Bronco with the tack decorating his garage, and drives nine hours to the southeast corner of the state to train in The Burns’ Boys Bronc Bustin’ Bootcamp. Slim had concluded (if not steered the whole time) his distinctly un-self-conscious autobiographical flight with a credo: “Work hard. Play hard.” This would have been unremarkable if not for the sheer context of the six weeks that had followed. Slim was a reticent manager, easily trod upon by the careerist book jockeys with unionized assurance and not a damn’s worth of self-consciousness about it. He repeatedly deferred to staff in non-strategic ways. There was nothing of the cowboy’s confidence brandished and self-stamped by those two well-calloused and curving thumbs. No sardonic hickspit lingo of the routinely and happily back broken, just the soft dumb lilt of the put upon country fried forced to talk now to talk and occasionally write for a living . Not a hint of the absolute swaggerdoccio he showed while crossing his Astroturf backyard and measuring off the rope-lengths between the produce crate he’d been standing on and the lassoed sawhorse fifteen yards away. He was in utter stylistic opposition to the countrified hard-living (but still-God-fearing-mind-you) hand whose Harney County file corroborated with paragraphs of youthful drunk and disorderlies, peace disturbances, and speeding tickets in every other rodeo town northwest of the Platte. Not that a man couldn’t change, sure. In fact, the radicality of the transformation was almost cliché: There’d been some chasteningly felonious moment out on the circuit where Slim had vowed to reform. He’d scored a G.E.D. and logged some community college. He traded the mockingly unlassoable expanses of Oregon East for the confines of the Portland grid and then Troutdale cul de sac. He had tamped down the wild in order not to destroy himself too soon. It is a reverse-romantic trope. We look at him and think of what we lose by having a surrogate sinner be so humbled. When we spy him swatting the rear of the corn-silk blonde watching for the deck we think “at least he has his consolations, his little old freedoms.”
He’d met Mrs. Slim somewhere out on the circuit. She had followed geographical suit after a long letter or two during the second semester. She now worked at nursing home on the hill lurched over Olde Town. But the wild had remained in her eyes. She ran the home like a wagon train cookie; alternately crass and militant, but unmistakably stoked by stores of innate joie de vivre and pep to be universally respected, if not occasionally loved. She pressed her advantage with dungarees and sealed the deal with tight denim tops. She brought Harney with her and didn’t give a damn about salting her language and eating out “lazy old, mush-mouthed coots and dears” if she had to. Not once had she offered up her incongruity and visited Slim at The Troutdale Library or watched him speak (stammer is more like it) during the Troutdale Chamber of Commerce of meetings or the Troutdale Optimists luncheons. Their opposition would have been too stark. She would charm while folded into a very droopy question mark. Mrs. Slim, Queen of Corn Silk, that trademark ass-swat says you are his little stored away gem, a beneficence of a carved out home-life. Spying on them through the monocular, Rawlings couldn’t help but feel the jealous tumbles. They had a spark not one of the seven other Chambermen, 14 Optimists, the Mayor himself, and any other even tangentially connected Nobles of the Kingdom (but for the King himself) Rawlings had trained the monocular and lip-reading skills on. They were all upstandingly likely in this their bergful life. The Slims, happy as get out, only fit in because even bergs need to have their star power and sex appeal. Exceptions serve to reinforce the dominant mode.*
*Troutdale markets itself as an escape from the ideological rigamarole of Portland, where exceptionalism is the perceived (and thereby marketed) norm.
Floating through that parkblock air the first time the gesturing fingers buckleward had no cause to register. The Slims were the reassuring anomaly. Mr. Slim was, if anything, a victim of the stultifying normalizing force of the mediocre Troutdale Dream. To have the penned up cowboy foisted on his final pre-concussed thoughts seemed to be a reiteration of recent dissatisfactions. ‘You fly through the air as though this has anything to do with it.’
But sinking to the now welcoming plush of the Tapatio girl’s carpet he returns to Slim’s gesture retrospectively. There was just too much damn cord wood in those arms to so convincingly play the sap to our urban milquetoasts turned job-confident and union militant. He replays everything the former cowhand said. He remembers that during the tour Slim had pointed out the various eateries in the shopping center. “Library employees and volunteers receive a 10% discount at a number of Cherry Park restaurants.” He’d pointed out the participants, which had included Tapatio and four or five other places. “It isn’t exactly haute cuisine but it’ll give you a bellyful.” Who’s to say what influences some book time and library crewing will do for un-eddycated. But “haute?” He’d pronounced it without lick of self-consciousness, like he’d been saying it his whole life. No amount of acculturation is going to make a cowboy let that French fried word sound so crisply snapping yet subtly postponed at the ‘t’ led up to by the ghost, the mere implication of an ‘oe’ sound soft as a croissant’s innards. It had been so immaculate Rawlings’ bunk and hiccup tuned ears (humming pitch forks in even the necessary moments when his burdened brain necessarily checks out or just plain goes elsewhere) had registered not a blip of incongruity. The enunciation felt of a part with the nervous, soft spoken country lilt. But, in this blessed and bile-mixing retrospect rug and puddleward, the ‘haute’ made no sense unless Slim had a pile more eddy-cation than the file showed or the man had either oft visited, had cause to speak frequently of, or hailed near on and thereabouts in Indiana’s second city, Terre Haute, aka The Land of Bird. Moreover: Who in the heck works hard in the library? Certainly not a ranchy with exemplary hands. He should be pronouncing it like Swaff…Oat……Swafford? Cuisine? Haute? …Tapatio?
“Work hard: Play hard.”
Slim’s voice echoing in the dilution of his consciousness.
“Work hard: Play hard.”
Echoing and mixing with the sound of the gagged and whimpering ally on the other side of the wall and meshing into the staticky hush of the fibers. The dull drum of Huanatoca’s stampede. Thinking of his lone remaining friend while dimming to black.
“Covers, Tige, Old Buddy. All covers. And food poisoned to boot.”

Grey #1

Grey #1. 12" x 16"

Troutdale Kingdom – 10 – Novel in Progress

He wondered if he was a patient in a hospital. Then he wondered why that was his first instinct. Couldn’t he be in his own bed? If he had the energy to roll on his side might he startle at the mountain of her long rolling hip? The long-linened climb to her shoulder Kilamanjaro? An exploratory elbow to the east met no resistance but who knows what quarter of the matrimonial plains he might’ve rolled to or, more likely, been pushed to.

Rocking to his left and right he tried to gain momentum. Creaking springs sounded particularly coarse in the low, close chamber. Someone could be listening on the other side of the wall. He would be discovered. But then why would someone be inside their apartment? And then he re-remembered: 14 years. Snapping his head into the last rock he half-hoped he was dreaming the bit about the fourteen years as he rolled to her side of the bed to protect her. He fell for what seemed a long time.


He woke to someone grunting nearby. They seemed to be in pain, desperate. Muffled squeals were now on his side of the wall. The high-pitched squeaking was painfully close and made his head ring. And this is a different room, isn’t it? The darkness is flat and mostly black with a sourceless line of white light beginning just above his throbbing left temple and stretching away and behind him.

He cannot move his arms or legs. Someone has restrained

him. He seems to have been rolled on his side and up against a wall. The other person in the room has been detained also. They are gagged and poking him in the shoulders and back, urging him to move. The squeaking sound becomes frenetic; a mouse in its electrified wheel. All the while a low register period bell is clanging and distorting inside his head. The beat of approaching footsteps on the other side of the wall does not build long enough to be identifiable. When the door lock above Rawlings is suddenly engaged it as though train cars have coupled just above him while he is tied to the tracks below. Rawlings jerks and spits.

“Gah! Gahhhhhh! Gahhhhhhhhhh!”


Teresa Huanatoca looks down at Rawlings flailing in her guest linen. The yelling has stopped but he continues twisting himself more tightly into the sheet and comforter. She can’t help but savor this. ‘Just look at the gringo mummy go,’ she thinks. ‘He sure can play the fool.’ When she touches the toe of her sneaker to his shoulder he hops an inch off the ground.

“Gaaaaaa! Ow-gaaafff! Gaaaaaaafff!”

Huanatoca bends down and gives Rawlings a little shove between the shoulders.

“Alright, shut up! Shut up, already!”

Rawlings spits out two more “gawfff”s and goes very still.  Huanatoca carefuls a hand in to try to free his head. The linen is damp and cold. Rawlings’ breathing is heavy. Her fingers plumb for the source. They run into something cold and hard. She pulls out a small plastic white noise machine spilling out static and set to OCEAN. She unplugs it then delves back into the linen. This time her fingers shock cold at what feels like a small, long-haired animal. Not trusting the sense of it she takes a fistful and pulls. She slowly reveals a section then a chunk then a long, flowing spread of Rawlings’ scalp.



She shocks at Rawlings’ sound and then at the entire wig she is juggling in her hands.


Rawlings begins flailing again.

“Gaaaaaa! Gaaaaaa! Gaaaaaa!”

She throws the wig across the room and against the wall. Rawlings is wheezing like he is about to hyperventilate.

“Shut up-shut up-shut up! Shut up!!!”

His legs are free and cycling madly in the air. Huanatoca kicks at them, tries to pin one down but this freaks Rawlings out all the more. She cannot get a hold on him much less free him. When she tries to get Rawlings on his back so she can straddle his chest Rawlings bucks her off his hip and she is thrown into the wall. As she rubs her tenderized head Rawlings cycles away in the shussing sheets. Huanatoca stands to leave the room and lock the door behind her.


Fifteen minutes later the door unlocks. Rawlings is shirtless, bald, and shivering in bed. His back is to the wall and his arms are crossed over his chest. A quadrilateral of hall light bisects his ashen and stubbled face. He stares ruefully at Huanatoca.

The woman he knows from Tapatio, who he has only ever seen in a red apron, tan highwaters and a matching shirt, is in what he considers to be aggressively casual ware; a red plush sweatsuit with the fat yellow insignia of the Sir Philip line (so much like a fat Achilles wing) stitched to the chest. Flawlessly white, pneumatic high-tops (with the brand wing stitched in silhouette) glow from the pedestal of this Counter General in Repose. The corded hands he has only ever seen flashing and larden lie loose at her sides, palm out, her long fingers curling in jointed C’s. The counter-kitchen angularity has been lubricated by a hot shower and coordinated into loose cushion. (Rawlings flashes his nostrils in search of Ivory soap.) Also, unbent from the counter, this woman must be close to six feet tall. He’d’ve had Tapatio Huanatoca at 5’6, 5’7 tops.

An elbow-shaped chin is raised to a nearly Mussolini-ishly obtuse angle. She turns on the light and Rawlings wincingly takes in the bare blue room. Huanatoca’s chin traces slow arcs in the air to investigate the room. The linens are heaped in one corner.  Maize-colored vomit is smeared and dripping down the opposite corner and collecting in a pool half-covered by Rawlings balled up shirt. Under the window small fragments of glass are mixed with the parts of what used to be the white noise machine. After processing each of these scenes Huanatoca’s head makes a little calibratory joggle before proceeding. Rawlings thinks her as capable of dispassionate cruelty as any humanoid mantis. Huanatoca bends down and rises holding out Rawlings wig. This does not change his opinion.

“Who needs bars on a third floor window?”

Huanatoca steps into the room and closes the door behind her. She looks him in the face. This is a different woman than the counter jockey. Where her body seems to exist in service of her hands, her head is run by a long, thin nose slightly bent in the middle. Its sculpted point indicates perpetual south to a small pursed mouth. High cheek bones pull the surrounding skin tight and severely to. Olive-brown eyes carry lids who fall less frequently and far more slowly than most. Thick, untended brows arch incongruously above. (They seem too soft, too generous to live among the rest.) A black helmet of jug-shaped hair tapers away from a fluted neck. Eight scissor snips around the perimeter and four straight across the bangs is her sole head-wise vanity. Rawlings fails to not find her arrestingly ugly to the point of beauty. She speaks less quickly and with less of an accent than she does behind the counter.

“Would you like a clean shirt?”

There is an unmistakable regality to the word, a savoring of her grounds and station. Clean.

“Go to Hell, lady.”

Rawlings eases himself to the edge of the bed. His arms swim through the air as he lurches to his feet. The legs are full of jelly and he is ready to puke again.

“Stay in bed.”

Her sentences blur into one word. She may as well be the OCEAN machine.

“Gang way.”

Rawlings takes a few tilting steps towards the door she is blocking. He is waving her aside with one hand and shielding himself from the nuclear sun of the bare bulb above. Huanatoca moves to the side and opens the door. Rawlings steps through.

The hallway and carpet are the same blue. Three more bare bulbs divide the stretch into regular zones of lividity and shadow. A closed door is floodlit by each. Using the wall as a crutch he gentles towards the second bulb. He realizes he is not wearing shoes when a central air vent gives him the hotfoot. When the door behind him snaps into place he does a humiliating little dance on the iron grate. If Huanatoca laughs or sucks up a breath behind him he cannot hear it over the blowing air. He rests against the second door.

“My shoes and coat.”

Huanatoca briskly drafts past him leaving Rawlings shaking. There is a residue of her back-kitchen carriage as she tally not- quite-marches down the hall. Rawlings thinks ‘She really knows how to put the ‘fuck you’ in her stride doesn’t she.’

Huanatoca places the loafers before Rawlings so that he can step into them. She practically dances behind him (‘She’s gleeful, the woman is gleeful!’) and holds his trench open tilting her head like a goddamn complacent matador. Rawlings almost backhands her when he snatches the coat from her and rips it on. He thinks he sees the woman give him an infuriating little deferential bow out of the corner of his eye.

“Go open your front door.”

Huanatoca puts an unmistakably sarcastic right angle to her elbows to double-time it down the hall, through a darkly orange-lit foyer type chamber leading, even more darkly, in three other directions, fairly hops over the threshold into the northerly chamber where her Sir Phils squeak over dark brown linoleum masquerading as brickwork, and into some unseen area that, acoustically, sounds a country away from the bosomy comfort of this warm, local Door Number 2 and the doorknob he clings to as he would a trusted confidant. The terribly distant and small sounds of twisted latches and thrown deadbolts sprouts a bilious pod of quease in the southwest intestines pressed against this now possibly complicit and very cold knob. Such are the shifting loyalties of unknowable lands. Huanatoca’s contralto echoes down the chambers in waves of piercing stabs.

LEES-to, SANE-your PA-ling!