BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 14. Through These Eyes

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In preparation for his on-site investigation, Wayne Roberts hadn’t shaved for three days, nor had he bathed, and Taylor Manning was now driving him to South Parkway, where he’d spend the next few weeks living on the street.
    Taylor rolled down his window. “Damn, Wayne,” he said, “roll your window down! You’re as ripe as a dead chicken lying in the sun.”
    “You don’t think I’ve overdone it, do you?”

All Over the Place: A Season One September

By Michael H. Brownstein

[Originally published in the now-defunct “zine” Message in a Bottle.]








The Egyptian Coptics who wore the tunics were angels
until the decade of warning, grave building,
a gravity of no consequence. The waters buried themselves
into the earth and the voices of the living dead
flowed beneath the ground until sands covered everything.
I too believe in one Deity, but I am unsure if I can
die for it. Study the pattern of lines in this poem. Do you see
blank space or do you see a belly full of living?

Acting Citizen: Kinky Rights

By James Knudsen

The Moristotle & Co. blog has a well-earned reputation for being family friendly, Rated ‘G’, adhering to the Hays Code, and Safe For Work. Nonetheless, in order for this month’s column to work, I must introduce the topic of sex.
    A dear friend who passed away several years ago, summed up the varieties and complexity of the human sexual universe thus: “Everybody’s got their trip.” For all our genetic similarity as a species, when it comes to sexual congress, regress, redress, and ultimately, undress, the scope is 360 degrees of all extremes, from the completely ordinary to the…well, I’m afraid I occupy one of the more ordinary solar systems of the universe, so I can’t speak to how extraordinary the x^th extreme may be.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 13. Next Day

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The next morning, Blake awoke to the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee. The clock showed 7 a.m. He pulled on a pair of jeans and walked toward the front of the motorhome. He expected to see Shelley cooking away at the stove, but it was Bobby, happily breaking eggs in a bowl. “Where’s Shelley?”
    Bobby threw the eggshells into the garbage pail and faced Blake. “She went up the hill, to the tree where the preacher was killed.”
    Blake started to look out the door, but from behind him Bobby said, “You need to put a shirt on, boss. It looks like you went a few rounds with a wildcat last night.”

11 Thanksgivings Ago Today: Thanksgiving what-if

I didn’t take this photo;
we didn’t have any
green beans or tomatoes

By Moristotle

[Originally published on Nov. 27, 2009.]

All day yesterday, even as I was enjoying our company for Thanksgiving, enjoying the bright afternoon (after a foggy morning), enjoying the turkey, the candied sweet potatoes, the Brussels sprouts and carrots, the fruit salad, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, the Vouvray, and the whipped-cream-topped pumpkin pie, I was bothered by something just not quite right about Thanksgiving.

Highways and Byways: Char #5

By Maik Strosahl

A friend of mine recently took some pictures of the aftermath of wildfires in Colorado. His simple title to the series, “Char,” seemed to be a perfect metaphor for the destruction that some who went beyond peaceful protest felt they needed to inflict upon this country to make people see their viewpoint. Thanks to David Hartley for inspiration.


In the land where
Roosevelt meets the Arapaho,
Cameron Peak is ablaze—
the spark still a mystery,
but the understory,
the down and dead,
the beetle-killed lodgepole
have raged for three months
until 200,000 acres
are nothing but char.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 12. BBQ

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The three of them drove up the driveway to Betty’s house at 6:00 sharp. Blake parked among the seven or eight other cars out front. As they disembarked the Jeep, they heard the sound of country music and loud voices coming from behind the house. “I don’t believe this 6-pack of beer is going to go very far,” Bobby said as he pulled the beer from the back seat.
    Blake nodded in agreement. “She never said it was a party, but then again she never said it wasn’t. Shelley, will you get those camera pens out of the glovebox? We might as well start getting pictures now. They walked around the corner, each with a ballpoint pen equipped with a small camera tucked in a chest pocket. Two clicks and it was on; one click and it was a writing pen.

Correspondence: We didn’t even get a road....

Prisoners working on
R504 Kolyma Highway

Edited by Moristotle

[Items of correspondence are not attributed; they remain anonymous. They have been chosen for their inherent interest as journalism, story, or provocative opinion, which may or may not be shared by the editor or other members of the staff of Moristotle & Co.]

Between 1932 and 1953, more than 250,000 Gulag inmate labourers died while building the R504 Kolyma Highway through the Russian Far East. Historians often cite the loss of these lives as a horrific example of Joseph Stalin's brutal leadership of the former Soviet Union – but at least the country wound up with a usable road that functioned through impossibly inhospitable weather and across unbelievably rugged terrain.

All Over the Place: Thumbprints

By Michael H. Brownstein

[Originally published in the now-defunct “zine” Message in a Bottle.]

currants of color
as in spices and herbs,
as in safety and ginger—
currents of water
have a way with words, too,
paddlefish, large mouth bass,
tiny vertebrae, bottom feeders

Goines On: Todd’s power

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As Goines pushed a shopping cart past Costco’s exit door to join Mrs. Goines at the entrance, Goines overheard Todd sending another shopper on her way after checking her items: “Have a won-der-ful day!”
    Todd’s only duty ever seemed to be to check carts on their way out, and Goines couldn’t say how many times he had heard Todd say “Have a won-der-ful day!” It had to have been dozens.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 11. Situations

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Two days later, when Taylor arrived at his office, he noticed Wayne moving around in the – what everybody was calling his – “situation room.” Taylor could see much of the room through his own door and the room’s glass paneling along the walkway.
    Taylor headed around the walkway, and as he approached the “situation room,” he could see that Wayne had a cot against the wall. He opened the door. “What’s going on, Wayne?”

No Country for Young Children

Not for My Son, Anyway

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

Living where we do in Virginia, we are surrounded by Trumpists. Trump won about 85% of the land area of Virginia. Biden won three counties west of Richmond: ours wasn’t one of them. Across Virginia and the country the lines seem more firmly drawn than ever: overall, Democrats win with higher income, more educated voters; Republicans win with less-educated, lower-income voters, the main exceptions being elite rich white people and disadvantaged urban black voters. [See the Newsweek article, “Trump Counties Make Up Just 29 Percent of U.S. Economic Output, 2020 Election Study Shows.”]

Highways and Byways: Broken Bow

By Maik Strosahl

This poem was inspired on the road. I like to look up information on the places I deliver. When I got to Broken Bow, Nebraska, I was disappointed that I could not find a backstory for the town name, so I created my own. I tried it several times and finally got it to work in this prose poem.


He wore three feathers – an eagle’s for strength, a falcon’s for speed, a hawk’s for keeping alert and the ability to see how today carries tomorrow in the balance. His hickory bow strained to the pull of sun-bronzed arms ready to war, string taut in his hand, twisted turtle’s neck held the nock of an arrow set for launch and piercing death for the proud white man staring through his looking glass, high in the saddle unaware of the enemy under cover of brush.

West Coast Observer: Will Trump Be Indicted for Anything after January 20?

And how do you feel about it?

By William Silveira

The question atop today’s observation is on many people’s minds. How likely do I think it is that Trump will be indicted for alleged crimes or misdemeanors after he leaves office? My opinion has nothing to do with the fact-finding that I did as a judge when I had a dispute before me. But I do have an opinion, based on news published in credible newspapers, such as the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the Wall Street Journal.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 10. Road Trip

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When Blake pulled the 35-foot Fleetwood into the A.P.S. parking lot at 6:00 the day of their departure for Reelfoot, Bobby and Shelley were waiting for him, their luggage sitting on the ground. He opened the front door and they climbed aboard. As he watched them store their stuff, Blake felt as though it were a family outing and he was the grandfather.
    October had been cold, but November had turned into Indian Summer with the temps in the mid-70s. Shelley was dressed in shorts and a cut-off T-shirt and sandals. Blake had to admit she had a body that made it all look good. Bobby, on the other hand, was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt with the name of some heavy-metal band on the front and their concert dates on the back.

All Over the Place: In the Morning It Will Still Be OK

By Michael H. Brownstein

[Originally published in the now-defunct “zine” Message in a Bottle.]








This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love is a god-stone, thick and sometimes valuable,
strong-wristed, one arc of a finger
stretching.

Poetry & Portraits: San Francisco

Drawing by Susan C. Price

San Francisco
By Eric Meub

[Originally published on February 10, 2018]

She was an athlete, finely tuned.
How fat with pastries she ballooned:
a courtesan to raise an itch
upon the impotently rich.

Moristotelians All

Aristotle: marble copy of bronze bust
by Lysippus, Louvre Museum

To think we were here the whole time!

By Moristotle

I had a Goines moment a few days ago, when it hit me for the very first time that the term “Aristotelian” that accompanies the name Aristotle naturally gives us “Moristotelian” to accompany Aristotle’s spiritual descendant Moristotle. I so surprised and excited myself that I ran the term by the staff, asking them:

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): 9. Hometown Killer

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Though Taylor was still a little pissed at Blake as he walked the few feet to his slightly smaller office, he knew it was his own fault. He should have waited until they were alone and not forced Blake to demonstrate that he was in charge. It was a stupid mistake, and, as Blake said, Taylor had paid for it.
    He pulled out his desk chair, sat down, put his feet up, and then opened the folder Blake had handed him.

Highways and Byways: The Night My Sister Was Born

By Maik Strosahl

Unlike “Irises across the Floor,” this one draws more from experience. My grandfather, I am told, was a very active person before I was born, but he was also in a lot of pain. He decided at some point he would do everything he wanted to do (hunting, fishing, bowling, etc.) in the year after he retired. After that, he spent the rest of his life sitting in his chair, drinking his Jim Beam and chain-smoking in front of the television. I was born about the same time he retired, so all I knew of him was the drunk who sometimes was funny, but many times was mean. I loved the man who called me “Michelle,” but wish there was more depth to our relationship and memories.

Commander in Cheat

Rick Reilly

By Mulligans Not

Rick Reilly wrote a wonderful book with the above title, and the subtitle How Golf Explains Trump. Golf is a very unusual sport in that the player is alone much of the time and is expected to enforce the rules on himself. While there are some referees in professional golf, there are far fewer than the number of groups on the course. Serious golfers take the rules seriously, although I suspect most golfers don’t. Mulligans are common.

West Coast Observer: Game Over

Remembering Ernest Thayer’s 1888 baseball poem

By William Silveira

How timely now is the last stanza of “Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888”!:

All Over the Place: Ash

By Michael H. Brownstein

[Originally published in the now-defunct “zine” Message in a Bottle.]




Dirty grey-white scuttles of gush,
Early small piles of pollen,
Reptilians in dry cleaner suits

Yesterday fire burst free from the breasts of two robins,
A rush of red sparkled across the feathers of a lone cardinal
And a beetle took its first tentative steps across concrete.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 8. The Preacher Killings

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Blake returned to HQ at 7:30 the next morning, hoping to have 30 minutes to get things lined up. But that was not to be; his three new recruits were waiting in the parking lot.
    Wayne greeted him, “Good morning, boss. We’re ready to go to work.” Blake guessed Wayne spoke because he was the oldest.
    “Okay, glad to see you three are early birds. Can I expect this every morning, or is this a first-day special?”

Woes of Biden Harris Plumbing

By Moristotle

There was a Trumper by name of Biden Harris;
Dad had named him Junior the more to widen parous.

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 7. Dead End

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Once back in his office, Blake closed the file on the June Killer. He had to face the fact that until the killer struck again there wasn’t much hope of catching him. His research team would be busy gathering pieces of the puzzle and, hopefully, by the following June, they’d have a picture as to how he operated. In the meantime, Blake’s new ground troops could start on the other murders that Peter’s computer had discovered looked like serial killings.
    Overall, his day hadn’t gone that badly. Getting clearance for his off-the-books operative had been the real worry, and it turned out fine. Now it was time to put the team together and get to work. He sent a text to everybody that there would be a meeting at 8:30 in the morning.

Highways and Byways: These Divided Highways

By Maik Strosahl

On a recent family road trip, I got to thinking about the things that divide us, leading us so far apart that we forget, the same roads that take us away from each other can bring us back together.


Somewhere left,
somewhere right
and the miles have multiplied
our differences,
our distances until
you could go no farther,
I could see no further,
turning back
down these
highways and byways
that led us astray
but keep bringing us around,
somewhere right,
somewhere left

Copyright © 2020 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He also dabbles in short fiction and may be onto some ideas for a novel. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. In September 2020, he started the blog “Disturbing the Pond.”

West Coast Observer: Election Day

By William Silveira

I recommend that all readers of Moristotle & Co. read the Sunday Review in the New York Times for November 1 [October 30 on the internet:“What have we lost?”]. Fifteen of the Times columnists explain “what the past four years have cost America and what’s at stake in this election.” It’s a sobering analysis and will ring true regardless of today’s election results:

BODY COUNT: Killers (a novel): Chapter 6. The Expansion

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The next morning, Taylor and Bob were driving out as Blake pulled into the parking lot. They waved and went on about their business.
    Blake planned to go to Germantown and confront the homicide captain, but first there was the matter of the new case Peter had uncovered and a meeting with the potential foot soldiers for the team. Then there was the lack of server space for Peter. Blake would have to find time to sit down with June Warner – it would be easy to get more space, but he knew she’d want a report and that would eat up time. Plus, he had one other thing he wanted to discuss with her.

All Over the Place: Physics with My Upper Grade Students

By Michael H. Brownstein

Roller-skating and physics. They go together like peanut butter and bananas. Like hot dogs and grilled onions.
    I put the skates on after lunch. Huh, what’s going on? What’s Mr. Brownstein up to now? What’s he doin’? Mr. Brownstein, the mad scientist. The buzz alone was worthwhile by itself. Why the skates? my students asked.
    Physics, I answered.
    And we had a physics lesson and I had a workout.