jbarn

John Marshburn Barnette, rising from the hills of Wheat Ridge, Colorado, rising like a weed from a spit of infancy. Jbarn with his shoes off reading in a cubicle. To the porch from the street, "Barnette, you up there?". John strong, tall with skill. "Tell that tubby bitch to call me back." He with beer and cue in hand, his past spread out like a cape when I sank the eight and asked for friend-shelter underneath.

Barnette took me to the porch and told me the past. A geek like us all, he left Greeley and college for the massive arms of Big Blue. A vocal percussionist, his forebrain holds a voluptuous vagina which he wants to eat for hours. Picky in women, his house nonetheless rocked with the beats of his guitar and the footsteps of the hottest in Boulder. Smoking a cigarette up his nose to quell the allergies, he sits in big chairs and throttles Perl, Java, C until they give up their virtue. Then we get drunk and spar on the grass, while my woman watches, a woman he knew from youth and whose eyes first turned to mine from his.

New York City calls to Barnette like a dirty siren in the night. His employers, a logical function, have sent him to the windy wastes of Tulsa to drum oil money into the Web. Home is still Boulder, but home goes wandering like the encrypted packets sent from his phased-array dish access. He scans the iron horizon for the woman strong enough to take him, and throws playful glamour in all our paths.