Farewell

I found a loose slab of stone outside the department store.

I tossed it aside and began to dig; the earth was

soft and caved in easy, soon I was in to my

waist. Size 34;

A crowd gathered but stepped back

before my screaming lungs and

canon ball like shots of mud.

and by the time the cops came, I was in below

my head,

Frightening crawlers, eels, and finding bits of golden

inlaid skull,

and they asked me, are you looking for oil, treasure,

gold, the end of China? Are you looking for love, God

a lost key chain? And shoppers dropped keys and peered

into my darkness, and a psychiatrist came

and a

high school teacher and a size zero movie star in a bikini and

a Russian spy and a Jihadi bomber and a Chinese soldier,

and a drama critic and my accountant, a leather jacket clad old boyfriend,

and they all asked  me,

what are you looking for?

and soon it began to rain…submarines changed course,

Bukowski rolled in his sleep, and my hole filled

with water; I came out black as the night, shooting stars

and epitaphs, my pockets full of beautiful worms,

and they took me in, gently nudging me toward a shower

and a nice cell, rent-free, and

I hear people picketing in my cause,

I have signed contracts to sell my words

I have signed contracts to appear on stage

I have vowed to vote for a better government

I have enough money to last me several years at the best hotels.

But as soon as I get out of here,

I am going to find me another loose slab of stone and begin to dig

dig, dig and this time I am not coming back….rain, shine or leather jackets.

Yet, they keep asking, why did you do it?

I pour me another bourbon and smile. 

Constantly, slightly drunk

Sometimes I want to scream, so I try. I open my mouth; clench my eyes shut and I try to throw that scream, that blood curdling, and gut-wrenching scream. Instead, all I can make is a noise, not loud, not a whimper but a pitiful sound. A sound that mocks my effort at bashful screaming. Next, I decide perhaps if I were to break something, do what most people do when they are angry or sad or helpless. I pick up my globe like metal ashtray and point it to the mirror and I think all right, this is it. I am going to take this ashtry and swing it to the mirror and watch my reflection shatter to pieces. That should explain how I feel. I will leave a physical evidence of my mental condition, accompanied with a noise, visual to see after, if am lucky I might accidently snip a finger or bruise. Something that I can nurture and make better, in that process my mind too will perhaps heal. I see myself thinking this through too much and then the mess, who will clean up the mess? Shattered pieces of glass, do I wear a glove to pick the larger pieces before I sweep the smaller one’s out. How will I explain it to the people I live with, it can’t be an accident, I wouldn’t want them worrying about me, or say “do you need to be so dramatic?” or “Have you lost your mind?”  That must be it, I must’ve lost my mind to think a scream or general disruptive behavior is cure to how I feel. I see a trickle of water streaming down my eyes now, this can’t be, and do I let it stream down or wipe it? Do I find a way to stop this; perhaps if I stand under the shower, it would all mingle in, water to water and not much of a mess to deal with. Its sorted now, I’ll take a deep breath, empty out my ashtray and take a shower.  All of this should be normal. People take deep breaths all the time, ashtrays are cleaned and showers stream down your skin.

Confession

and some people are a grand waste of your time
and some people not worth the words
there is a reason they leave so early
a reason why you never bump into them
a reason why you should never make that attempt
a reason why they pass you by the other door
a reason why you will never notice them at an arm's distance
a reason why you will forget all of the above and chase an object of desire
a reason why the world is full of beautiful things
a reason why its only fair to be distracted.

Mediocre

Here you are
not too many hangovers
not too many fights with women
not too many flat tires
never, no never a thought of suicide

not more than two job changes
never a chipped tooth, three decades and
not more than three tooth aches
never missed a meal
never in jail, never in love

five pairs of shoes
trousers and shirts stacked together
oh to live your closeted life on the edge
car loans, insurance policies
passion reserved for weekends
your technology on auto update

so easily amused, its a miracle
our madhouses are rarely on display.

Betrayal

Today I saw a woman flirting with a man, a man who is not her husband. I say to myself: She ought not have improper relationships with this man, this is absolutely incorrect, JUST NOT RIGHT. I say this woman should not be seeing this man in an inappropriate way when her husband is picking raw from ripe tomatoes in the back aisle.  But I do tend to confuse an old reality with a new one. This woman is close to being 80 years old, her husband instead of picking tomatoes is pushing daisies. Yet, How can there be improper relations with a woman of 80? My confusion must be this: though her body is old, her capacity for betrayal is still young and fresh. 

Five Senses

My dearest one every once in awhile you ask me 

Why do we have to go to the art gallery?

why do we have to go see a play every other weekend?

why do we have to go a concert?

why go to the restaurant and try new cuisines?

   I could tell you, "I just feel like it" and leave it at that and you would resent me label me extravagant and never understand my curiosity or intent. 

    My darling child, just like I have you too will learn over the years to treat your five senses with respect and consideration. you will take your eyes to the museum, your nose to a flower show, your hands to the fabric store for the velvet and silk; you will surprise your ears with a concert , and excite your mouth with a restaurant meal. You will also meet people who make their senses work hard for them day after day: Read me this newspaper! Pay attention, nose, in case the food is burning! Ears!- get together now and listen for a knock on the door! their senses have jobs to do and they do them, mostly-the ears of the deaf won't, and eyes of the blind won't . soon you will see their senses get tired. Sometimes long before the end they will say, "I am quitting, I am getting out of this NOW"! those persons are less prepared to meet the world, they will stay at home more, waiting for that knock which they might miss, letting milk spill over, the eyes and hands sore from scrubing clean a kitchen. My love, when one day if it all quits on them, they are really alone...in the dark, in silence, numb hands, nothing in the mouth, nothing in the nostrils and you will hear them ask themselves this "Did I treat them wrong?" "Didn't I show them a good time?" and no, you don't want to be that person. Go ahead, drive three hours to watch that play, camp overnight for those concert tickets, spend a tad extra on fine wine, do whatever you can and show them a good time. 

One such person.

“Tell me, when are you the happiest?”

“Why do you ask?”

You have to tell me because it will help you find out what you can do for the rest of your life apart from eating, breathing, sleeping... you know what I mean. You need to do something with your life, maybe a vocation even!

We can get to it if you can answer some simple questions. Okay?

Sure.

So, here goes.

You can pick these options if you cannot think of anything original.

“I am happiest when”,

a)  I am with my family

b)  I am doing something meaningful (travel, pursuing hobby, helping the poor, friends etc)

c)   I am quiet

What is this? You are supposed to help me, not ask me daft questions.

You have to answer it.

Well, then my answer is “Depends”.

That is not an option.

It has to be, sometimes I am happy when I am just a witness to something that is out of the ordinary.

Like, for example?

You want me to tell you an “out of the ordinary” event which has made me happy?

Yes. Go on enlighten me.

Okay, you have to promise not to be prejudiced.

I’ll try.

Well, I’ll try and tell you the way it is.  Jacob got this offer in one of Vienna’s finest restaurants as “head chef” or “Chef de Cuisine” as the French like to call it. Jacob started his career as line cook and it took him 20 years to move from line cook to “Assistant-chef”. “Delayed promotions” was his answer to missed opportunities. Nevertheless, “Chef De Cuisine” offers don’t come in everyday, so we packed and moved to Vienna. Our home there was in this beautiful picturesque suburban neighborhood, it was quiet and barely anything happened there, this can be quite un-nerving to a person who has lived all her life in New York. My immediate neighbor was Marie, she was a muralist and her house was her canvas, the central wall had the portrait of Raphael with a door to his shoulder and the two other walls had Michelangelo and Da Vinci. Her house was like an art museum; I’d wake up and see Raphael eyes peering down, which was quite spooky. Anyway, Marie also tutored some students but most days she worked on her walls. However, one day, I saw Marie sitting on the pavement under the streetlight and she was making these sketches on paper. Now, if it were New York, I would not have noticed her at all, but Marie and her quirks were out of place in that suburbia.  By mid afternoon, she had her paints around her and she was intently on to something, I thought I must walk up to her but her intensity was intimidating. I wondered how everybody else in that lane reacted to Marie, perhaps they felt just as intimidated as I did or they conveniently ignored her, or maybe they were just too used to Marie. At around 11 Pm I peeped out of my window and saw Marie sitting very still, what could she still be doing at this unearthly hour?   A few minutes later, I heard a shrill shriek; you know that animated scream when someone presumes to have seen a ghost. I jumped out of my bed and ran out and I saw this young girl run past Marie. Under that street light Marie looked still, she didn’t move, it didn’t look like she was breathing either. I called the police and I told them what had happened and in a while an officer knocked on my door and asked me what the problem was.

“Don’t you see that women there officer, look, under that street light. Marie, she is sitting so still, you have to help her, something is not right, she isn’t moving, don’t you see her?”  I yelled pointing toward the light.

“Sure we do see a woman, and yes, she is still. We don’t expect murals to move in this country,” he said plainly as if it were common or it had all happened many times before.

“A mural” I said and walked toward the pavement and yes, it was a self-portrait.            

       Therefore, my dear Clara, I do not know what you will make of this story but, it is this “out of the ordinary” that makes me happy. I don’t have to be with my family, I don’t have to do something meaningful and neither do I have to be quiet. That moment there as witness to an unrecognized genius was when I was happiest and that is what I want to do as long as I live apart from eat, sleep, and breathe. 

 Found this short story unexpectedly fishing for an old file... this was a story a friend told me. Don't know where she is now... the things your comp throws up on you.