The McWhorter Affair

Word on the street was that the elusive agent known only as XA6 was planning on infiltrating the bucolic "wedding," in fact an elaborately staged event jointly planned by the CIA and M6 to provide cover for a meeting of the expatriate Scottish warloard, "Mr. McWhorter" and members of the Connecticut Aryan Separatist Party. Only one, poorly-lit photograph exists of the slippery XA6, and so the "guests" knew they would have to keep their wits about them to identify and eject this shadowy miscreant. The first reported sighting came early in the night.

"John" and "Sean" could not be sure it was indeed XA6 who breezed past them on the veranda. But "Nate" claimed to have caught sight of him, and offered the others an indication of the mystery man's stature. Nate's colleagues were skeptical.

Photographs subsequently developed show that the cheeky freelance agent was, at this stage, confident in his mission, going so far as to pose for snapshots with the deadly agent, 51A. A black belt in pilates, capable of beheading a man with her powerful Big Scissors kick, 51A, understandably, mistook XA6 for a one-eyed pirate.

Indeed, XA6 is a master of disguise. Here, "Sean" believes he has identified the infiltrator and initiates a standard-practice lightning-ejection kung fu sequence. Unfortunately, the recipient of said procedure turned out to be a legitimate member of the catering staff, whose family has been duly compensated and "disappeared" in industry parlance. Meanwhile, according to our crack photographic analysts, XA6 was right under "Sean"s nose, brilliantly disguised in a pair of wax lips. So flawless is his deception that "John," standing right next to him, is entirely unsuspecting, and takes this moment to rub noses with a stranger.

But surrounded by the industry's best, XA6 could not hope to maintain his subterfuge for long. Between the salad and sorbet, 51A realized she had been hoodwinked, and alerted the others to XA6's pirate disguise. Buoyed by this new information, the agents intensified their search, leading to a near-tragic incident on the dancefloor.

"John," in his fiery determination to best his sworn adversary, momentarily forgot the rules of perspective, and mistook a "Cristie" in profile for the one-eyed pirate he had been instructed to kill. He struck with his internationally-patented sucker punch, but thankfully, "Cristie" thought quickly and responded with a textbook backhand to the face,
forcing "John" to abort his attack and initiate evasive maneuvering. With his typical ingenuity, "John" dodged the fell backhand with a fantastically-exectuted "white man shuffle." Having now caught sight of the other half of "Cristie"s face, "John" backed down.

In order to preclude further confusion, several agents took advantage of the dancing melee to discretely identify themselves to one another: now we may add to our files that "Sean" operates on behalf of the declining Vampires for Death Metal collective, "Alex" belongs to an unspecified cartel of flower-pushers, and "Nate" represents for the East-side Trekkies.

Thus mutually identified, the search for XA6 intensified. "Cristie" looked high and 51A looked low.

XA6 was underground, nowhere to be found. As the night progressed, several greener agents lost hope. Foolishly deciding to take advantage of the open bar, the judgement of some operatives became clouded: at this point in the night, Assistant DA "Chris" accuses our undercover photographer of being XA6, while "John" simultaneously takes credit for being XA6 himself. 51A was aghast at this lack of professionalism.

But lack of professionalism prevailed, and long before the agents stumbled back to their hotel rooms, XA6, according to hotel security cameras, made his exit, brashly posing for this parting shot with a smug look of apology, the keycard to the CTASP's secret stash of heavy Perrier water safely in his hand.

XA6 remains at large, and should be considered armed, legged, and devilishly handsome.

W.I.P.

For the Great Basin Desert

This desert
Used to be a small sea
In the crushing days of glaciers.

Now, bare as an out-turned pocket
It declares its poverty: rock
Sun-blunted smooth as an open palm.
It has lost everything—
Entire rivers,
Mourned by arroyos
Running with stones.
The mesa crackles
With white lines of crystallized salt
That trace, synapse-like
Its memory as ocean floor,
Its most intimate knowledge of water.

I remember you still.
Our stony ages heave to light
As I drop into the canyon:
Toroweap, Hermit Shale
Bright Angel,
Vishnu.
On its sandy floor,
I will walk among the agave
From whose strap-shaped leaves
The men here beat tequila,
For forgetting.

W. Also I.P.

Our Last Summer on Pulpit Rock Road

Nights in that white house
We push our plates back after supper
And watch the sun set down behind Camden.

My father listens gravely for the ferry
To sound safe passage past the point.
You can feel the horn before you hear it - 

Low and imprecise as wind thrumming through rocks, 

Hollow as a gull's call in fog.

I watch the light die on Saddle, the saddest island, 

All spackled with mussels and timothy grass, with its two humps 

And back broke between.
Or I'll watch my sister's eyes darken with the water.

Tonight the slick heads of Harper's seals flash silver in the thoroughfare.
My family sits in spindle-backed chairs facing west,
Each with our own separate silence,
As the sun sets so wide, the light fills up the spaces between us.