Microfiction, etc.
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Through the mist, I could barely see the dog; she had a habit of straying too far on our walks. I found her at the pound. Anyway, she lumbered my way a dozen meters and then ran back into the tree line. I walked on. Arriving at the tree line, I heard a ferocious roar that made my hairs stand on end. The underbrush came alive and the dog bolted past me with her tail between her legs. Sasquatch emerged from the trees then, stopped to look at me, hawked a loogie on the trail, and disappeared back into the mist.
Janey had the brightest idea after the pie was rescued: She thought that since it was burned anyway we could just soak the crust in bourbon and serve it flambé-style. It was filled with liquor-marinated Italian plums, after all. Bethany was up for that. With her hip glasses and perfect teeth, she also insisted placing candles in the darkened crust, to celebrate the burning nature of our desire for each other: the very reason the pie was blackened to begin with. As usual, I only wanted pie and didn’t care too much for the pyrotechnics. These beauties drive me nuts sometimes.
Louis is funny. We were at a cantina in Naco, Sonora, Mexico. He was in his sixth ounce of Everclear. The resinous roaches at the bottom of the ashtray represented the last of our weed. Louis’ glass was soon emptied, his bushy mustache soaking up half the shot. Louis dug out a roach and lighter; He placed the roach in his lips and flicked the lighter. The jukebox was vying with the Mariachis. In the bar’s mirror I saw the moustache explode in a ball of flame and Louis fall backwards from the barstool. The Mexicans and I erupted in laughter.
Last night I sat alone under trees watching rain sweep over the river’s wide and tranquil surface. Occasionally, a larger drop fell from the canopy above and hit the ground with a palpable thump, sending a tiny cloud of dust into the mottled moonlight. Entranced, I listened to the rain; to the drops on the ground; to my thumping heart. I think I felt my soul for the first time. If so, will it truly outlast this body’s era? Will I remember that moment after I draw my final breath and my flesh is committed to fire?
Kathy never thought so.
In Southeast Arizona, on the dusty line at Mexico, Don José & Doña Maria wait below. Up above them in the empty market lies a figure from their past, shrinking in the corner in a growing pool of blood. The killer moves now to the stairway. Doña Maria prays the Rosary in her breathless, silent way: For transgressions of her past, she begs forgiveness from the Virgin of Guadalupe. Don José stands up beside her, removes the Virgin’s stolen cloak from a worn burlap sack. Still the scent of roses clings, as he shrouds Doña Marie and resigns himself to black.
The First Date
We were together seventeen minutes and she scared me and I fell in love. She was a loaded pistol, a loose cannon with sea-green eyes. Her black hair dangled past the delicate straps that held up her red velvet dress. White socks under pearly slippers. When she pulled out the switchblade, I knew she was the selkie she claimed to be. I also thought she was only joking when she robbed the valet for bus fare.
She smells great, I thought, as the bus rumbled down the street.
Upon a Windy Weald
We must make a bed here and now and lay down close together; a colder current races quickly from the south. What heat we make shields us from the tides above in the windy weald. Only sleep remains, as love we can spend in droves.
Petaled orchard rows defy winter’s desperation and, moreover, define the paths our hearts will limp upon in latter steps. Winds shake the boughs, howls abound through crests of mudcaked paces littered with fallen growth, like love letters shredded in anger. I want tape, for memory flowers forgetfulness alone.
Cowboy looked up from the hot basin and sat for an hour watching the last cloud in the sky dissolve. His horse stayed nearby, kicking up small clouds of dust, and seemed to be doing the same thing: watching tendrils of dust disperse, as if the answer to their plight could be discerned in the fading apparitions presented to them. They were both somewhat correct in this.
N = R* x fp x ne x fl x fi x fc x L
(a.k.a. The Bar Scene)
My affections, deflected, bounce from her bodice
and fly to the heavens like radio waves.
Like angels in reverse,
smashed by flesh and falling ever up.
Who will tune in now?
Arecibo! Arecibo! Where for art thou Arecibo?
An affection-less Arabesque is the object I now desire.
But not for too long: Obliquely, she’s eclipsed
by a gibbous goon, rising, knife in hand,
to meet my spleen.
So I end my transmission–
Cut it short by a Texas mile, and smile:
Put on a show, ya know?
For the one in the back?
Dressed in black?
Yeah, that’s right: she’s from Puerto Rico.
A Reefnetter’s Paean to the Sea. Dedicated to Will Wright (1918-1998)
Rusty flaked salmon blood and sequined scales
fall like leaves from my limbs,
like cherry blossoms on the lee shore.
What great solemn fields of broken water
have I plowed for you;
I am a petal on a raging sea.
I am brittle fabric on a flagpole;
a wayward standard stranded high
in the tidal wind of your passing.
I am cold, wet, and lonely.
Great mother of rain, of pearls and life:
deep water, green with dizzy depths of fathoms running,
of seething currents.
The ebb, the flow:
My keen affection keeling over now, for the moment,
to you.