Cornflake

We’d been high stepping through the green thicket of Sandot’s farm a mere twenty minutes when we saw him.

Poor thing all tangled and wrangled round that tree. Sandot said he must have been there at least two days now. Two days! We couldn’t let such a cute fatigued face languish toward a droopy death. So we set out on a K-9 reconnaissance mission.

Our four-legged friend had apparently hurdled through the outstretched arms of a pimply-assed tree grasping for opposite ends of the sky, when he snagged his chain-linked leash round the tree’s trousers, instantly ensnaring himself in an uncomfortably smelly situation. So the furry little frolicker’s afternoon of carefree prancing quickly turned into a struggle for doggy survival.

We cautiously approached the petrified creature who seemed skeptical of our intentions. He sat nervously, legs folded under belly, growling in fear and glaring at our every step as we crept through the muddy copse.

We poured fresh water into a skinny bamboo bowl and extended it to our shivering friend. After sniffing for signs of anthrax, he slowly lapped a few gulps into his parched puppy mouth as we seized his leash from the relentless grasp of that stubborn tree.

Now that we’d gained his thirst-quenching trust, we thought to feed the dog. So I offered him some cereal. Our new friend sniffed the gift again—although this time with significantly less skepticism—then devoured each nutritious flake with slobbering gratitude.

The dog stretched his sore, dilapidated legs for the first time in two days and then followed us back up the trail with a gaping smile. We christened him “Cornflake”.

Betsy Blue

It’s the tenth frame.
Andy is beating John by one point. One pin.
Your average Joe might shit his socks in this situation.
But John is more composed than Mozart.
(Plus he’s not even wearing any socks).

John rises from his red plastic bucket seat one big toe at a time.
He slurps down his last gulp of Johnny Walker
And scrupulously situates the empty glass on his glossy red throne.
Licking his lips with whiskey delight
John whisks around and gives Andy the stink eye.
He doesn’t really know what the stink eye is
But John hopes he has struck fear in the heart of his opponent.
(With any luck Andy won’t misinterpret John’s taunting as a retort to his flatulence).

This is the moment of truth.
John struts over to the conveyor belt.
He reaches for Betsy Blue—
A darling beauty with the fiberglass curves of a Laotian Queen.
John presses Betsy to his lips and gives her a smack of whiskey breath.
He licks his lips again
Savoring the flavor of Betsy’s bowling alley lip-gloss.
John takes three intoxicated strides forward
And lets Betsy fly…

Game over.

Words of Wisdom

Immersed in a word. Sentences turned phrases. Phrases turned pages. A life consecrated. Dedicated. THE HOLY SCRIPTURE. History. People. Places. Struggle. Strife. Sacrifice. Triumph. Lessons learned. Meaning. Purpose. Reason. GUIDANCE. All for one. One for all. Simple stories. Complex answers. INTERPRETATION. Choice. Free will. Divine excellence. Omnipotence. Too literal. PAROCHIALISM. Sectarianism. Stubborn. Selfish. Black vs. White. Good vs. Evil. Us vs. Them. All for one? One for all? Words turned phrases. Phrases turned pages. PARABLES. Metaphors. Allegory. Morals. Not rivalries. Not wars. Understanding. Acceptance. PEACE.

In Honor of Him

We still hike the same treaded trail of history every Christmas.

Same time. Same park. Same path. I wish I could say I wear the same Ghostbusters pajamas; battling cryptic hallucinations of gap toothed fairies. But Mom, unaware of the threads of time-travel, burned my slime-repellant suit in a flame of forgotten nostalgia.

Paps always said family was more important than anything in the galaxy. Even more important than the Yankees winning the pennant. So in addition to the tradition of family meals between bedlam of work and school, Paps would take us on a Christmas saunter through the park.

We would skip through the trees on the south side entrance. The frigid Christmas air pinching my cheeks like a ruthless Grandma. Morning dew glimmering off the grass like 24 karat crystal winking at a Bel-Air trophy wife. Sparrows caroling Christmas cheer from the window of their tree condos.

We would park ourselves on a bench by the water while Paps told magical stories about the ducks who we fed stale Doritos. Each feather with its own fantastical story. Every beak with its own beating heart. All the ducks deserved and demanded attention. And Paps was sure to grace them all with tall tales of adventure.

In reminiscence, those were the happiest moments of my life. But despite a ginseng shot of holiday joy, I was too young to understand. It wasn’t until after Paps passed away that I appreciated those Christmas days in the park. It’s virtually impossible to immerse in the present and appreciate the simple beauty of stagnant life, especially now, as I fend for myself 24 hours a day, minute by New York minute.

So to maintain sanity and soul, my brother Jim and I make the same trek through the park every Christmas. We bring a bag of stale Doritos and sit upon the pond, sharing a holiday feast with our quacking feathery friends.

We do it to honor Paps. We do it because we’re family.

IT

It’s been thirteen long years.
Still feels like yesterday.

A hot cocoa kind of day.
Marshmallowy grey sky.
Stirring and swirling winds.

A peaceful day in the park.

Shadows dancing long behind the sun.
Leaves crunching like crackers under foot.
A typical stroll through tranquility.

At least at first.
Until IT appeared.

It was a divine kind of light.
Majestic and mesmerizing.
Colorless yet captivating.
Eerily extraterrestrial.

Dawn was not typically so inquisitive.
She mostly kept by my side.
But the light summoned her like it would most children.
So I let her explore.

How was I supposed to know?
It seemed harmless.

Take Your Seat

It’s funny
How things come together.
How destiny dances a lucky draw.

Of all the shows. Of all the slabs. Of all the rows.
This was mine,
Hand-selected by fortune herself.

A tragedy of baroque raiment and regalia unfolded on stage,
With a herd around me gawking and gasping,
Pretending they hadn’t a clue.
Yet there I was—a spiral amidst squares.

“So why was I there?”

My thoughts swam laps above the stage.
My eyes strolled aimlessly across the crowd.
I scoured every face in that place,
Until my heart finally grasped a glimmer of light—
The moon’s reflection shaded green
By an iris’s majestic grin.

Her smile could melt the hearts of a thousand men.
Her hair could put silk out of business.
Her breasts could swallow an infant’s dreams.
But her eyes...oh, her eyes!
They are Shakespeare’s every inspiration.

When the waves of praise rolled back to sea,
And the curtsies all completed,
It was then I courted my Queen,
It was then I began to see…

…why I was there.
At that show. On that slab. In that row.

Because fortune works in funny ways.
And on that day
She gave me a sign…

Best Day of My Life

This is supposed to be the best day of my life. The day I gallop into the sunset atop a white stallion stroking Prince Charming’s luscious locks. The day little girls dream of.

Yet her I am; immaculately manicured fingers clenched round a rusty gate with the relentless grip of an alligator’s chomp. My feet hugging the narrow steps as if one slip will send me tumbling to my demise. My heart pounding like a herd of drunken elephants beating their bongos. My chest swelling with the pressure of an imminent roaring geyser. I’m beginning to shiver and shake. Wobble and wonder. What have I done?

Of course I look gorgeous in my pearly white wedding dress, but how will I look in twenty years? Will I be a good mother? Will I have healthy children? Can I please my husband? Is he even the right man for me? What have I done!?

I’m only nineteen years old. Merely an elemental fetus in the life of our sun. Yet apparently old enough for marriage. Of course I love him, but does love warrant a writ of matrimony? Can lovers not laze in a sea of amative adulation without worrying about drowning under the pressure of wedlock?

I think—pressing the iron gate tightly against my bosom as if it were my stuffed teddy bear—that I’ve sprinted too fast toward the finish line of affiance. I guess I just wanted to please Pappa. He always wanted to have grandchildren to scuffle around with on the farm. I simply wanted to see him smile again. He’s getting old, and with Mamma baking sweet pomegranate pies high above the clouds with Jesus, Pappa needs those grandchildren now more than ever. But is marriage the answer? Can’t I just buy him a dog?

Well, it’s too late now—I’ve already donned the dress. I just hope my central nervous system drags me off these steps sometime soon.

Look at my little sister standing there begging me to come back down to earth. Doesn’t she look so beautiful holding that bouquet? I can’t wait until she gets married!

Believe What You See

There I was minding my own business, snapping shots of my friends as we scurried through the ruins of Roman history, when out of nowhere this snowy vapor; this wisp of white light; this cloaked cloud of inconspicuous chalk swept across my lens as surreptitiously as Bruce Lee himself.

I was stunned for a moment. Angry at the thought that my carefully framed photo had been sabotaged by a supernatural ninja. But when I glanced down to see what sort of pixeled portrait I had captured, my anger swiftly spun into delight. I wasn’t sure at first, but after a second glance it was still there.

I had always heard stories of lost souls languishing around their forgotten stomping grounds, but I never knew what to believe. The closest encounter I ever had with a ghost was a quick quip at 4 a.m. amidst a marvelous acid trip. That didn’t seem to count, considering my brain was awash in LSD and my perceptions were slightly askew to say the least.

Despite whatever perceptive skepticism I had until that point, I was now a firm believer in animate apparitions. I just wish I had snapped the shutter in time for her to say cheese!

I Do

Do you remember, my dear? The way the wind whispered cool lullabies on our fair skin. The sun’s radiant song and its ultraviolet tune. The vast landscape begging us to dash headfirst down the hill. I do.

I’ll never forget gazing into the galaxy of your gorgeous green eyes. Or admiring the way your hair danced in the breeze like a jellyfish gently searching the sea. Or the way you meticulously grazed upon your salad as if one lost red-tipped leaf would set the world upside down.

As we marched up the rocky mountainside that afternoon, I was more nervous than an ice cube under a heat lamp. For eons I envisioned how that day would unfold. Step for step. Word for word. Unfortunately I always ended up saying something stupid and making a jester of myself.

Ironically, it wasn’t just in my head. I really was a buffoon. But that’s why I fell in love with you. You get me. You see that the narcissist who’s too bloated to laugh at his own ridiculous behavior will never reach true enlightenment. I’m just glad you can laugh with me.

Do you remember, my dear? Sitting upon our wooden throne, pretending we were erudite emperors protecting our people as they plowed the earth below. Do you remember? Laughing, kissing, dancing, dreaming. We were on top of the world. Literally.

Do you remember, my dear? What you said when I reached out and plucked a diamond star from the sky just for you. I DO.

Wanted

I couldn’t believe it.
I even bet Rob a weeks allowance it wasn’t true.

I’ve spent the last three months darting through dark alleyways,
Creeping over cobblestones,
Playing the perfect ghost.

I’ve posted with pigeons on the rooftops,
I’ve made to be a mendicant under the moonlight,
I’ve waited. And waited. And waited.

I still can’t believe it.
Three sleepless months in the streets
Waiting for this moment.

Ninety-three days my mind has played tricks on me.
With axons conducting and dendrites choreographing the show,
My mind’s theater has played this moment millions of times.

And here, on day ninety-four,
The synapses scream “that’s a wrap!”
For my mind’s make-believe theater is shutting down,
As my eye’s camera is capturing the real deal.

His name is Herschel Horwitz.
He’s thirteen years old—
The godfather of the Matzo Mob syndicate.

I’ve been hunting Herschel Horwitz for ninety-four days
Like a ghost grasping for a lost soul.
And here I have finally found him,
Business as usual.

I still can’t believe it.

Night Rider

Prince Leatherback slew the ugly dragon with a tethered two-by-four.

Centuries of folklore have fantasized tales like Prince Leatherback’s. Always embellished with fairy godmothers and opulent castles where damsels in distress perch atop a lonely tower awaiting their romantic rescue. The hero inevitably arrives by white stallion at the perfect moment of suspense, slaying the damsel’s gatekeeper with a glowing sword wielded by some supernatural blacksmith. But these magical myths, while emotionally invigorating, are not tales of truth.

Prince Leatherback, on the other hand, is as real as summer’s sunburn. He’s a rambling rogue; a nomad going nowhere; an itinerant on life’s lonely highway. There is no castle on his horizon or pouting princess in his heart. Prince Leatherback does not seek adventure. Adventure hunts for him.

It is said he does not sleep. He eats to feed a family, and does so with devour. His beard is neatly chaotic and nests a clan of knives. His ponytail tightly wrapped and rolled thick like a cattle rancher’s whip. He wobbles like a drunken grizzly bear from roadside bar to country cantina. But do not misconstrue his debaucherous sway as aloof languishing. Prince Leatherback can swivel on a pivot and kill you instantly with a swift whip of his head, slashing your throat with his tightly woven ponytail.

One steamy Texas night, Prince Leatherback is cruising the countryside with Cyclops, his trusty travel companion. With no particular place to go, Prince Leatherback suddenly hears a caterwaul in the distance. Cyclops lifts his lonely eye and rushes toward the cry. It isn’t five dark minutes before Leatherback and Cyclops arrive on the scene.

Her face is badly bruised. A swirl of snot and blood slaloming down her cheek. Tears swimming in a blue lagoon under each eye. Her assailant staggers at the sight of Prince Leatherback. The near empty whiskey bottle drops to the dirt, shattering like a million broken hearts. Fear consumes the ugly dragon. Prince Leatherback creeps toward him ever so slowly. He stops. Kneels down in the dirt and grabs a splintered two-by-four. The ugly dragon stumbles and falls to the ground.

Prince Leatherback drops the bloody wooden block and gently helps the beaten woman to her feet. Without a word, he hops on Cyclops and rides off to the next roadside bar.

Prince Leatherback slew the ugly dragon with a tethered two-by-four.

Still Standing

Forever it seems, we have been hunted like hounds by blood-thirsty bigotry.
To make an honest living in a dishonest world is all we ever desired.
Yet we are taunted and tortured. Ridiculed and ransacked. Minimized and crucified.
Jealousy and envy—ruthless twin assassins hired by our enemies—
Slither through our city, day and night, like silent serpents in the tall thicket,
Plotting to strike our hopeful hearts with venomous spite.

What did we ever do to provoke them?
Is it the way we till our land?
Is it the way we eat our food?
Is it the way we see the sky?
What warrants such devious atrocities as I have seen?

Humble men humiliated and murdered.
Loving wives whipped like livestock.
Innocent children enslaved or beheaded.
What did we ever do to them?

For thousands of years they knocked us down.
For thousands of years we got up.

They can tie us down and burn our bodies,
But they will never drown our dreams.

For thousands of years I have witnessed the persecution of my people.
Yet here we are, still standing.