Fly The Friendly Skies 

I was heading back to Tucson after I had made a Drug Run of eighty kilos of Cocaine  to Sacramento. It was originally meant to be delivered to San Francisco but an earthquake of devastating proportion caused the destination to be changed. 

I finally boarded my flight to Phoenix after my stopover in Los Angeles.

Whenever traveling alone it seems I always get seated next to someone with some kind of  annoying trait or disgusting habit. The incessant talkers that go on even after you express  disinterest There’s the drunks with an unpleasant attitude . Or those with body odor or with an excessive amount of cologne or perfume which is  just as displeasing. Close talkers with  bad breath. Others who pick their nose or clean out ear wax. Then they offer to shake hands with the one they just used to pick their nose. You get the idea.  I do wonder if the person that gets seated next to me may find me annoying.  I’m occasionally drunk, seldom stinky, borderline attractive, depending on the border and my demeanor couldn’t be classified  as unpleasant. I am an absolute  pleasure , how could anyone not enjoy an encounter with me? This time fate does me a solid and my traveling companion in   Seat 12 B , the window seat on this flight to Phoenix, is not a beautiful woman but instead a scholarly looking fellow. His face is wrinkled, weathered and pocked,  a testament to his many bouts with the challenges that life has thrown at him. As I sit down he uncaringly stuffs his jacket under the seat. He strokes his scraggly beard then pushes the call assistance light to summon the Flight Attendant. Then stares at me with a blank expression not showing any emotion. It seems as though he’s sizing me up.

I notice the Flight Attendant coming toward us. She’s  working her way up the aisle through the passengers still boarding, stashing their items in the overhead storage and searching for their seats.

“Good morning sir. How can I be of assistance?” She greets us in a melodic voice while reaching to turn off the call light.

” Well let me tell you that as soon as possible, I need three of those baby bottle sized Whiskeys you sell. No need for a glass, water or ice. Just the Whiskey and I don’t care what brand. And how about you there Pancho you want something? I’m buying.” The scholarly fellow asks.

“Sure , thanks. I’ll have a Whiskey as well in the baby bottle. It doesn’t matter which brand. ” I responded.

“I’m unable to serve you gentlemen before we depart but I will get your order as soon as we reach our cruising altitude and the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign.” She says.

“You need to know I am an alcoholic and must have my medication otherwise I can’t be held responsible for my actions. And Pancho here appears as though he may possibly suffer from the same affliction. How is it that I noticed when I first entered there were people enjoying cocktails up front there. What gives?” The self proclaimed  dipsomaniac asks.

“Sir, that’s the First Class you’re in Coach. Those passengers pay extra for that privilege and service.” The waitress in the sky explained.

“So let me understand. I’m just second class and it all comes down to money?  Another example of the inequality of Capitalism and it smells of bullshit!  Do I appeal to the head of the Airline to protest this bourgeoisie oppression or would this be something you could possibly remedy? ” He says.

I am unable to hide my reaction  from  the humorous exchange and I begin to laugh. The attendant leaves hastily shaking her head in disgust although still with her smile. She  returns moments later with six baby bottles of Scotch. 

“A gift from the Airline. My pleasure. And I know who you are, mister. So mind your manners. ” She warns.

” Thank you ever so much.You shall be generously rewarded by the Gods my dear. Ya see Pancho  sometimes ya just have to kick the rules in the balls .”

I wasn’t offended or insulted with what some might consider a racist comment with the Pancho reference. There was no malice intent in his expression describing my heritage. Although I’ve always been under the impression that my appearance was more Italian than Mexican. The ball kicker hands me two bottles of scotch and keeps four for himself. One extra for him as commission for his effort he explains.

” So what’s your story Pancho? Everybody’s got a story, some just not as interesting as others. So what do you do? You a drug dealer or a crop picker on vacation?  Are you in this country legally or are you one of those border jumpers?” He inquires.

“I don’t want to disappoint you but I am a Priest from  Nogales ,Arizona. I just delivered donations of food and clothing to the earthquake victims in San Francisco. I’m headed back gotta work Bingo at the church tonight.” I told him.

“Son of a bitch! Are you fucking feeding me a line of  bullshit? I would have never guessed that even if I was clairvoyant. You should be wearing your Collar so you don’t catch people off guard. It’s not fair going undercover. So how’s that God fellow doin? Ya think he ever feels guilty about destroying people’s lives by his ruthless ungodly actions?

I think of his assholiness as quite a prick. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t exist anyway. Don’t want to offend you or your beliefs so I won’t give you my take on him or religion. Gonna have to wait until I’m drunk. Then ya can give me a Peso for my thoughts. Here’s to your Jesus and the rest of the fictitious characters in that Bible. And to all the religious fanatics as well . What a fairy tale ,a book of fables written by religious fanatics, numerous authors , interpreted by an unknown number of editors.  Written hundreds of years ago without any factual data.  And with events stolen directly from other religions. I’d rather worship the spirit in these tiny bottles. At least I know it exists and it tells the truth.” He says raising his bottle in a toast that excludes me. So that was an example of him sparing my feelings by not expressing his opinion? I found it curious that he was concerned with possibly insulting my religious ideals but had no problem referring to me as Pancho. I truly liked this character. There was realism in his demeanor and a fire of wisdom burning in his eyes . His views no matter how socially  or politically incorrect were sung and voiced without derogatory intent.

“So what do you have to say for yourself Mr. Dipsomaniac? You do anything else other than drink and give people a hard time? Are you a mean drunk? And what experience was so traumatic in your life that it resulted in you becoming an alcoholic as you refer to yourself?  Another question, the Flight Attendant said she knew who you were. What did she mean? And…” He interrupts me.

“Hold on there Padre! I’m not one of your misguided flock that you can flog with your rosary and threaten omnipotent retribution for indiscretions. Just thought we would share philosophies on the complexity of women or maybe discuss a favorite or worst book you’ve read.  I’m not much for sports or political issues. But you want to pick at my psyche, get personal, have me bare my naked soul and we haven’t even gotten off the ground. Not gonna happen Padre.” He speaks without taking a breath.

The airplane begins to make its way down the runway. We are thrusted into the cloudless sky as the ground below shrinks into minute images.

“It’s only the take offs and landings that rattle my nerves.” He says.

The fourth miniature bottle of Scotch meets with his lips and is emptied in one loud gulp. The aircraft levels off at the pilot’s designated altitude and the ding sounds indicating the fasten seat belt light has been turned off. Immediately after, he reaches once again for the Assistance Button and pushes at it with force.

“Gotta find our Angel of Mercy to stoke the fire. Ya ready for another there Padre?” My new best friend askes.

“No, I am just fine at the moment. I’ll wait it out till Phoenix , have a connecting flight to Tucson. They say if ya die in Tucson your soul will have to catch a connecting flight to heaven.” I mentioned.

“Cute, not funny, just cute. And you can spare me your Reader’s Digest witticisms. Save them for the Bingo crowd. Have you always been a servant to your imaginary deity or was there a time when you cut loose? Understand what I’m getting at?” He asks

“Yes I understand and absolutely, I had an abundant supply of  paint when I was younger with which I generously painted many a town red. However the time came around when I wrestled with the ” Better to serve in hell than Reign in heaven” quote. I concluded that I could become more useful as a Priest than as a party  animal” I replied

“Familiar with Milton I see”

“Yes and with Voltaire Candide, Moliere, Rousseau and the entire pack of howling Philosophers.” I state. 

“Quite impressed there Padre Pancho. But I am starting to develop a severe case of doubt concerning you being a man of the cloth. In fact I don’t believe you are a Priest at all or for that matter a Catholic or even a Christian. Where the hell is the Attendant? I am drying out .” He says while looking down the aisle front and back. 

“Would you like me to fetch her for you?” I offer

“I see her in back there readying the drink wagon now. Guess I’ll have to ride out the drought.”

“Here take my other bottle, you need it more than I .” I offer.

He accepts my gift displaying a huge grin.

” I don’t care who the hell you are Padre, you’re okay in my book.”

I’m trying to figure out who this guy could be. He didn’t seem familiar to me at all. I was sure he wasn’t an actor or a famous musician. He couldn’t be a politician like a Senator or Representative. I was leaning toward the Arts, maybe a famous Painter or Film Director. Then it all became obvious to me who this character was and what he did. He was a writer, a famous Author. I was an avid reader of his work since being a fan of Transgressive Fiction. This guy had written a great number of books and was an acclaimed poet as well. 

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Father Santiago. I’m enjoying our time together on this flight. You’re quite the character.” I said.

” Still going with the Father act huh? Well I’m not buying what you’re selling. So is it alright if I just call you Santiago?”

“Sure, Santiago will be just fine.”

As we shook hands he introduced himself. 

” Pleased Santiago . Henry, Henry Chinaski.”

Pain,
A four-letter word, yet so profound,
A silent emotion that cannot be expressed,
It reaches deep within, touching the heart’s core,
Unleashing vulnerability, leaving one in sorrow’s embrace.

Oh, the word called pain,
A burning sensation surpassing hellfire’s heat,
Bitterer than any medicine or food known,
Leaving one exposed in an unjust world,

Crushing the spirit to its very core, bringing one to their knees.
As I sit on the beach, feeling the caress of the breeze,
My life unfolds like a fleeting vision,
Rejection’s sting envelops me, casting darkness,

Rendering me unwanted, causing discomfort to prevail.
A feeling so agonizing, it beckons the embrace of death,
It hurts, beyond words can convey,
Why must I endure this torment?

Feeling undesired in this vast world, I question my existence.
Pain, oh pain!
The agony it inflicts is unbearable,
Devouring and destroying with an insatiable hunger.

Pain, a deadly word that pierces the human heart,
Too fearsome to utter, it sends shivers down the spine,
It resurrects haunting memories, cutting deep,
Oh, pain, how I yearn to banish you from existence.

If only I possessed the power to create a painless world,
Where suffering finds no place to dwell,
But would such a world still be called “world”?
For pain, in its absence, defines our human experience.

I wish I could mend the wounds of all who suffer,
Erasing their tears that disguise the pain within.

Let us aspire to find solace amidst the anguish,
To heal and be healed, to replace pain with love,
For in this journey, we discover our strength,
And may our smiles reflect triumph over pain.

Bella Angel Douglas participated in the Write Liberia poem competition in 2021 and came in third place.

SCREAMING WOMAN

I was five, taken into Arkansas woods, 
where an old couple lived.
They were distant relatives.
They have no names, just images.
I don’t even remember the husband
or the other men who dragged her out screaming.
I was transfixed, flung into a nightmare.
She was naked, squirming, screaming:
“Don’t take me! Don’t take me there!”
Later I remember asking—Take her where?

To the hospital, no ambulances would
go that deep in the woods. 
She had cancer but refused to go.
Act of mercy, her husband finally said okay.
Like a barn razing they came,
four of them grabbed her, 
carried to the old black car,
screaming and screaming. 
I‘d never seen a naked woman,
never used an outhouse
where I  hid before I threw up
and swore I would never die.

For a long time, it was like a dream,
but Aunt Sallie gossiped 
and my adult mind remembered 
like finding out the monster
under the bed was real.



ELEGY FOR WASTED CHICKENS

We already know the way they do it,
squashed in cages, unable
to stand, move, spread wings
until it is their time to become
Wangs or cordon bleu or parmigiana,
make Popeye and the Colonel richer.

Even the defective tiny chicks 
are gassed like baby Jews,
the yellow from the stars
cover their quivering bodies.

 In the cafeteria, my student shouted:  
“Yuck, throw those wings away.
They’re disgusting; I hate them.”
My daughter boiled chicken,
a fat breast and a leg quarter
for her dog, but it was too fatty,
crunched it down the disposal.

Does it matter if the chicken is eaten?
In Chicken Heaven is there a kind
of dignity if you are consumed
instead of a funeral in a garbage bin?





HUMAN BITES

A mosquito is born, a human is born.
Both destined to die.
The mosquito does not know this.
Mosquitos will never think on it,
no concept of prevention.
The insect will just do its blood thing and die.
That is the difference between the two. 
The human seldom thinks of death.
Eventually, the human accepts reality.
When he does, he doesn’t want to die.
He is against dying but realizes 
it’s a futile thought, a deceptive myth,
numbs himself with myriad palliatives—
an apothecary shelf of addictions.
Why do humans, who know they will die,
devise so many ways to kill each other?
The mosquito might give you a better answer.

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein has published over 250 poems and short pieces on over 100 sites. His first poetry book–I WAS YOUNG AND THOUGHT IT WOULD CHANGE–was published last year and he has his second one coming out soon. He has no Muse; the world of poetry is his muse.

SILENCE

Silence in me
strikes in lightnings
of the sky, too gray
and destroys my accumulated
fear in the years 
of non-belonging.
Silence in you
does not know my fears
and gets lost in the words 
of unknown people
whose hands cannot
touch the softness
of our hearts.
Don't let me stay silent
because my love is
louder than your smile.
The loudest one.

LIFE

This life is
soaked with tears
and the words are too small
to pronounce
all life in an instant
and my love
hidden in the corners of solitude.
This life is
soaked with tears
and the pain of the past
is stronger
than the impending ecstasy
in the kiss of the night
and my escape is stronger
than the strength of your will.
This life is
soaked with tears
and the joy gets crushed
by the sorrow of the
desperate and disbelief in a
new longing.
This life is
soaked with tears
but today there is a smile
in my eyes
so don't walk away
from my smile .
Don't let the grief
to put out these embers
at least sometimes
when I forget
that this life is soaked with tears.


HOPE

I would like to take
the paths of new hope
and erase my footprints behind
me because your escort is
superfluous before the rising sun.
I would like to walk
the land of solitude
for years
and walk on
the silence of the
pathlessness liberated
of all your words and
deeds. I would like to be
born again
bathed in purity
of my soul
and stand
in front of the starry sky
as a newborn.
And pardon
my rude words
and be patient
because my loneliness
is your loneliness, too.
You are my other self.
You do what I am afraid of.

Jasna Gugić
Translated by Anita Vidakovic Ninkovic

---

Jasna Gugić was born in Vinkovci, Croatia. She is the Vice-President for public relations of the Association of Artists and Writers of the World SAPS; Global Ambassador of Literacy and Culture for the Asih Sasami Indonesia Global Writers, P.L.O.T.S USA the Creative Magazine Ambassador for Croatia; and a member of Angeena International, a non-profit organization for peace, humanity, literature, poetry, and culture. She is also co-editor of the anthology, Compassion—Save the World, one poem written by 130 world poets.

The last important award with a single nomination for Croatia was awarded by UHE – Hispanic World Writers’ Union – César Vallejo 2020 World Award for Cultural Excellence.

Jasna is a multiple winner of many international awards for poetry and literature, and her work has been translated into several world languages. Her first independent collection of poetry was published in 2021, a bilingual English-Croatian edition, entitled Song of Silence. She lives and works in Zagreb, Croatia.

Many of her poems have been translated into several foreign languages and are represented in joint collections. Her poems have been published in magazines in the USA, Spain, Greece, Italy, Russia, India, Syria, Denmark, Brazil, Mexico, Bangladesh, Serbia, Albania, Nigeria, Belgium, China, Chile, Nepal, Pakistan, Korea, Germany and etc.

Her poems are published in so many world-famous print and electronic magazines, journals, websites, blogs, and anthologies like Spillwords Press – USA, P.L.O.T.S. The Creative Magazine – USA, Mad Swirl – USA, WordCity Literary Journal – USA, Medusa’s Kitchen – USA, Atunis Galaxy Poetry – Albania /Belgium, Lothlorien Poetry Journal – UK, Polis Magazino – Greece, Homouniversalis – Greece, Chinese Language Monthly – 中國語文月刊 – China, Eboquills – Nigeria, Azahar Revista Poetica – Spain, Sindh Courier – Pakistan, Magazine Humanity – Russia, Entre Parentesis – Chile, Daily Asia Bani – Bangladesh, Bharat Vision – Denmark, Litterateur Rw, Dritare E Re – Albania, Literary Yard – India, Gazeta Destinacioni – Al bania, The Moment International News – Germany, Kavya Kishor English – Bangladesh, PETRUŠKA NASTAMBA, an e-magazine for language, literature, and culture – Serbia, Güncel Sanat magazine – Turkey, Cultural Reverence, a global digital journal of art and literature -India , A Too Powerful Word – Serbia, Magazine Ghorsowar – India, Al-Arabi Today Magazine, Magazine Rainbow, Humayuns Editorial – Bangladesh, Himalaya Diary – Nepal and Agarid br. 24 and 16, Online newspaper NewsNjeju, Korea, Willwash. wordpress blogzine – Nigeria
 

THIS STREET

This warm wide street

murders the infant ice.

It carries benefit and debt

from Perdition to Paradise.

It’s walked by gamblers and planners,

sharers of a barrel

or a quarrel.

Perceived to be staid

by beseechers and besiegers

looking for worship or a war,

by flatterers, benefactors,

prophets, and the perfidious–

it’s radical and erratic,

as wild as a wave.

PHASES

1

The horned owl would hunt at night.

I watched it from an egg,

blinked

and couldn’t find its flight.

Worried that it went extinct,

unable to sleep, I mourned

until I found, faint, its horns.

2

Fishes glimmer in the nets

spread across the deep.

Trapped, they surrender to death

in their cold, dark, and cramped keep.

But, oh! What schools they inspired;

when stars spawned, no one higher.

3

The orange on the sky tree

is burnished like polished brass

trumpeting Eternity’s

emergence from a dark past.

How sweetly that orange glows

all today and tomorrow.

ROSES OR LOTUS, LINE AND POLE

My self lives with several selves

that confront, ignore, cooperate.

Sometimes the Army of Roses quelled

rivals with promises of passion.

The Lotus Ashram would dominate

through its acceptance of inaction.

Or I’d be the weathered bosun’s mate

on discovery from Line to Pole.

I oscillated from soul to soul.

I joined that Army but deserted

when I learned passion had gone awol.

Alas, when romance eluded me

I tried the Ashram to forget it.

I got to Bali and Moosonee

but then got strapped to mast, unshirted.

Now content, selves meld with line and pole.

BESTIALITY

White teeth

I mourn–

they’re shorn

like sheep–

and bones

grown limp

like shrimp

and prawns.

My thumb,

adrift,

a skiff

of chum;

my tongue,

threatened

vegan

dugong.

The knees

wobble

and stall

like bees,

and toes

crackle,

rattle

like crows.

The heart

quivers,

shivers–

tense hart.

A MAN’S MOTIVATION, EXCUSE, AND RULE

An idea, an acre,

an ounce, an inch of skin–

a man’s motivation

for mayhem may be quite thin.

By fiat, by fire, by fist,

by bullet, or by blade–

a man’s excuse and rule

can be tradition or trade,

opportunity or lust,

inspiration, or luck.

A try will lose, will triumph

through cowardice, through pluck.

Get Out of the Water

Jellyfish float like lungs in the sea

and lungs float like jellyfish in a different sea.

Everything is breathing with life and ick.

That is the kind of pantheism we are talking about.


Every beach is on the edge of another beach

and you can walk there on the jellyfish.

They pulse with the transparency of borders.

Our lungs yearn to mate and evolve in the jellylike sea.


We will never stop evolving.

The jellyfish are going to kick your ass, God

with their universal love that stings.