The clash between the Blue and Red-Star aliens is taking place in Parallel Earth. The Blues are tired of the excess influx of technologies occupying infinite spaces, so are the Red Star aliens. The Blue Star aliens, through their specially-designed light-year interstellar spaceships, migrate in 120-earth minutes earlier than their Red-Star counterparts. The former has the agenda of peace and savoring the vastness of enormous lands the parallel Earth possesses as they co-inhabit with the parallel earth’s peoples, while the latter, fierce-looking, star-red complexioned force of alien beings is poised to take control and put under continued torture the Parallel Earth’s peoples.
look up at the sky and you could almost hear the singing of the stars
summoning you in the depths of space.
And the Heavens of the gods
are towering lofty cities like the mountains
on gold coast of time;
And on the mammoth ship of platinum
the rings of light twine around giant’s necks of men and women
their eyes are like the stars of the dawn.
2016.4.28
黎明的辰星
当天空疾驰如江河
你站在人间之城的街道
向天仰望 仿佛听到群星的歌声
在太空的深处向你召唤
而诸神的天国
在时光的黄金海岸
矗立山岳般的巍峨之城
而白金的巨轮之上
巨人的男女 项佩光环
眼眸如黎明的辰星
2016.4.28
Only the Eternity is Equal to It
I am a singer from the heavens
my song is silent, only the soul can hear it.
Those ancient gods are the mountains behind me,
they gave me the flowers of millennium from paradise,
let my song mellow and sweet as the smile of the heavens;
let the face of time blush and lift the veil of death;
let the ancient earth reveal the true face of gold.
Oh, you’ll see another you,
as old as the sun, as young as the dawn
his kingdom is huge and only the eternity is equal to it.
4.04.2015
唯有永恒与之齐名
我是一位来自天堂的歌者
我的歌曲无声 唯有灵魂听见
那些古老的诸神 是我身后的山岳
他们赠我千年的仙果
让我的歌声芳醇 甘美如天国的笑容
让时光的脸儿羞红 掀去死亡的面纱
让古老的大地 露出黄金的真容
哦 你将看到另一个自己
古老如太阳 年轻如黎明
他的王国之巨大唯有永恒与之齐名
2015.4.4
My Heaven is Inside My Body
My heaven is inside my body,
my heaven is a great many,
like stars in the night sky,
with silver towers,
huge edifices that look like apphires ,
golden palaces, gardens of crystal.
My body is bigger than the universe,
countless gods and angels are my partners,
as if they are countless myself.
Neither time nor life and death in my words
dawn and dusk are the same name,
and sadness and joy are the same words.
11.08.2020
我的天国在身体之内
我的天国在身体之内
我的天国居多犹如夜空的繁星
白银的楼阁 蓝宝石的巨厦
黄金的殿堂 水晶的花园
我的身体比宇宙更巨大
无数的天神与天使是我的伙伴
他们仿佛是无数的我自己
我的词语里没有时间也没有生死
黎明与黄昏是同一个名字
而悲伤与欢喜是同一个词语
2020.11.8
Bio:Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.
Tranlator Yuanbing Zhang
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), who is a Chinese poet and translator, works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District , Jining City, Shandong Province, China. He can be contacted through his email- 3112362909@qq.com.
Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuanbing Zhang
One of the greatest differences, I’ve found, between life in the United States and here in Mexico is this: Here, it is a large part of the rich, old, cultural fabric to recognize and respect other people, even just passing them on the street.
North of the Border? Not so much.
Perhaps I lived in the city of New York twenty years too long. Smiling at, making eye contact with, and chatting up strangers on sidewalks or in subways was simply not done– especially if you were a youngish woman on your own, striving to be street-smart and stay safe.
Even as a little girl growing up in New Jersey’s suburbs in the ‘50s, I and my sisters were taught never to talk to strangers. There were bad people out there, we were led to believe, who could do us harm. So we had to always beware, keep a safe distance, and “run like hell,” if necessary, away from them.
Some of this vigilance and wariness toward others has obviously stuck with me, all these years on.
When I first began private Spanish lessons with my tutor Edith five years ago here in San Miguel de Allende and asked her for secrets of success in learning the language, she said cheerily, “Práctica, práctica!” (Practice, practice!)
“But,” I countered, “how can I practice speaking Spanish when I have no one to practice with between our weekly lessons? I’m here alone.”
She suggested I walk to the Jardin (the city’s central plaza) every day and find a nice person on a park bench to chat with. She smiled. “San Miguel is filled with people who speak Spanish,” she said.
“Yes, but…” I stammered. “I’m from New York. I can’t speak with strangers!”
I’m getting better, though. I’m learning. I’m learning the importance of what Mexicans refer to as cortesía (courtesy), the social protocols taught to all Mexican children by their mothers.
For example: the significance of greeting everyone you meet, even strangers on the street, with a smile and “buenos dias” (good day – used between dawn and noon), or “buenas tardes” (good afternoon – from noon to sunset), or “buenas noches” (good evening/night – after sunset and before sunrise); saying “con permiso, por favor” when requesting attention or space (as in, “excuse me, may I get by?”); and offering this polite blessing on another’s meal (in passing someone’s table in a restaurant, for instance), “buen provecho!”
“Buen provecho!” — lunchtime at a cafe in SMA’s design center, Fabrica la Aurora
So instead of avoiding strangers, being wary and suspicious of them, as I and perhaps many other Norteamericanos were trained from childhood to do — for our own personal well being, we may have thought — Mexicans reach out to others in recognition and respect, in a spirit of we’re-all-in-this-together human connectedness. What a difference this makes in day-to-day human interactions, I’ve observed.
A lot has been said and written about the joys of living in San Miguel de Allende – the food, music, colors, art, architecture, culture, history, people, climate, overall beauty, and affordability for us retired gringos – but one aspect has not received as much attention, in my opinion. It is this contrast, this cortesía, this emphasis on respect. Especially, I’m finding now as an older person, respect for older people, regardless of nationality or background.
This was true for me also in Mali, West Africa, when I lived and worked there for three years in my mid-fifties. Mali, like Mexico, is an ancient country, proud of its history and culture. (Perhaps only the oldest countries are wise enough to appreciate older people?) As I noted in my memoir of that experience:
“In Mali, unlike in most parts of the United States, older people, especially older women, are revered. The attitude of respect and admiration shown toward women who have lived long lives and, presumably, gained wisdom along the way permeated Mali’s culture like a golden thread woven throughout the social fabric. … Relinquishing youth, beauty, and sexual appeal for wisdom, reverence, and respect seemed like a healthy tradeoff to me” (p. 161, How to Make an African Quilt: The Story of the Patchwork Project of Ségou, Mali).
Yesterday I listened to Paul Theroux’s marvelous keynote address given at the San Miguel Literary Sala in February 2019 (available from their website, https://sanmiguelliterarysala.org/product-category/audio-recordings/) in which he discusses his new travel book, On the Plain of Snakes, about his most recent travels through Mexico. I listened to him as I busied myself straightening my apartment. But I had to stop what I was doing to write this down: “There’s more respect for an older person in Mexico than anywhere in the States,” he said.
I’m reading On the Plain of Snakes now, highlighting it madly as I go along. Paul Theroux made this trip alone, by car, when he was seventy-six – the age I am now – so I can relate on many levels. In regard to age he writes, in part:
“In the casual opinion of most Americans, I am an old man, and therefore of little account, past my best, fading in a pathetic diminuendo … either invisible or someone to ignore rather than respect. [But] … I think of myself in the Mexican way, not as an old man but as most Mexicans regard a senior … not worn out, beneath notice, someone to be patronized, but owed the respect traditionally accorded to an elder” (p. 5, On the Plain of Snakes).
How refreshing, how life-affirming, I feel, to be seen here and now in Mexico, not as a harmless, vapid, pretty-young-thing, which was the case for me a long time ago in New York — the only reason strangers ever glanced in my direction — but as a fellow human being, still alive, still visible and somewhat relevant, an elder worthy of a little recognition and respect because I have lived this long and, perhaps, learned a few valuable lessons worth sharing.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This link will take you to three excellent YouTube videos that will further explain Mexican history, culture, and especially cortesia, presented by Warren Hardy, who runs an outstanding Spanish school here in San Miguel de Allende:
We are in South Korea. We are standing in the dark at the base of a giant golden Buddha at 4:30am. The Buddha is framed by mountains and a wooden pagoda. I’m wearing six layers of lightweight cotton, unprepared for the near-freezing temperatures we will endure for the coming hour. Shaking, I find myself trying not to wonder why I thought staying at a temple in the mountains was a good idea.
Four monks in white robes and rust-red vests arrive at the small pavilion where we have been waiting and, for ten minutes, we watch them take turns pounding on a six-foot drum. The rhythms are exciting and powerful, and a little dissonant to our western ears.
The drumming stops and the monks take turns ramming a log into the side of a giant brass bell. The sound of the bell resonates in surprising ways and the vibrations echo through me, somewhere deep. My shoulders relax and I stop feeling the cold. When the drumming stops, our host, Bori, tells us the sounds of the drum and the bell are not designed to appeal to our intellect (“monkey mind”) or hearts (with their unpredictable emotions) but to our bellies, centers of balance and quiet. And then we walk to the unheated temple for chanting and a dozen prostrations before three giant Buddhas sitting on a cloud of live orchids.
Breakfast follows in an unheated dining hall. The food is vegan with the traditional Korean palette of sour and musky and salty. Kim chee, tofu, rice, vegetables. No garlic or onions. No fats, no fruits, no caffeine. I am a vegetarian so this is not tough for me. I leave the dining hall craving ice cream.
Trailhead from outside our accommodation. Beopjusa is in Songnisan National Park.
The morning’s rituals will be repeated in the afternoon, following a hike into the gorgeous hills and a period of rest on the mats in our tiny (heated) sleeping room.
Personalized clay tiles for the temple buildings.
The second day is like the first, except our meals include watermelon and grapes, and I take the time to honor a friend of the family who has left us. I say her name to myself during the morning chanting. I light a large candle and paint a black roof tile with a goodbye message. I realize how glad I am to be at the temple right now, where there are so many small ways to honor her memory.
At the end of our visit to Beopjusa Temple, we feel healthy and relaxed. The world seems quieter and strangely comforting. We will eat ice cream.
(And if you are interested, South Korea has a wonderful network of temples where you can stay and even participate according to your objectives — check out https://eng.templestay.com/)
I’d done acid a couple of times since moving north, and both times had been fairly innocuous in terms of the trip. The first time had been with James and another friend of his from the dorm in Berkeley. We’d sat around, listened to the Doors and Big Brother and the Holding Company and, once we knew we were on the back end of the trip, ventured out onto Telegraph Avenue to find food.
The second time was at a John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers concert at the Fillmore. I fell in love with the blues harp that night. I’d gone with Grease and Jocko, but I met a girl wearing a Mexican peasant blouse over a suede miniskirt and calf-high leather boots, who was clearly digging the music as much as I was. The smell of patchouli oil wafted from her lithe body.
I had gotten laid for the first time three weeks after moving to San Francisco. A girl I’d known in high school was on her way to a hippie commune in Oregon and asked if she could crash at my place for the night. I don’t remember how she’d found me or even thought of me. I’d noticed her in school, but she ran with a different crowd and it had never occurred to me to ask her out. But that night in the Haight, she told me she’d thought I was cool because I hung out with “the Black kids.” We smoked some dope with Tara and Grease and, when it was time for bed, she undressed and climbed into my bed without saying anything. The sex seemed mechanical to me, but then, what did I know? I came fast, probably too fast, but she didn’t seem to mind. I don’t think she had an orgasm. She probably just wanted a place to crash.
The chick I’d picked up at the Fillmore suggested going to her place, which was close by, and although we’d hardly said a word to each other, we were undressed and in bed within moments of entering her apartment. She announced that she preferred to be on top. I shrugged my assent. So she climbed over me and lowered herself onto me and then, as I later described it to James, “went absolutely fucking wild.” It was like a bucking bronco ride. Her frenetic pace and her intermittent yelps of pleasure had me so distracted I lasted far longer than I thought I would, given my limited experience. But it was obviously memorable; ever since that night, whenever I smelled patchouli oil, I thought of that wild ride.
As was not uncommon in those days, our night of stoned sex was the one and only time we ever saw each other.
Tara wasn’t home when I got home from work the next day. I was ready to do some tripping. There was a note on the dining table, next to the two tabs of acid: “Be back soon. Start without me if you want.”
My jeans were dirty from the bike shop, so I went to my room and changed into white Navy surplus bell bottoms. I replaced my work shirt with a sweater I’d bought at a thrift shop. I pulled my brown hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. Then I went back into the living room and slipped the acid tabs into my side pocket. I’d just tossed Tara’s note into the trash when there was a knock at the door. The door swung open before I could answer it.
A girl who looked to be nineteen or twenty stuck her head in. “Can I come in?”
I nodded, then waved her in. “Sure. What’s happening?”
She walked into the apartment and closed the door behind her. She was about five-foot-seven with a slim build and medium-length brown hair. Pretty, but not beautiful. Her eyes were dark green. She was wearing men’s army surplus khaki pants and a tight-fitting white T-shirt, which showed off her braless breasts. She looked around.
“You the only one here?” she asked. Her voice was husky, sexy.
“Yeah. Why? You looking for someone?”
There was a slight shift in her body, as if she allowed herself to relax. She looked at me for the first time. “I’m Gloria, your neighbor. Sorry to barge in like this, but my old man and I are having a fight, and I need to get out of the apartment before he does something stupid.” She looked around again. “Mind if I crash here for a while until things calm down?”
I shrugged. “Help yourself. I’m Russ. I think there’s a beer or two in the fridge.” I motioned with my head toward the TV. “The TV works, but you may have to mess with the rabbit ears a bit to get a clear picture. I’m about to head out.”
Gloria lowered herself onto the couch. “There’s three of you living here, right?”
“Four,” I said, slipping on my coat. “I’m heading out to meet Tara. The other two are guys, Grease and Jocko.”
Gloria cocked her head and smiled for the first time. She was prettier when she smiled. She had a beauty mark on her left chin. “Grease and Jocko?”
“Don’t ask,” I said with a laugh. “They’re nice enough guys. Stay as long as you like.”
I heard Gloria thank me as I walked out of the apartment and I raised my hand in acknowledgement. Once in the hall, after closing the door to the apartment, I pulled one of the tabs of acid out of my pocket and put it on my tongue. I paused at the door to Gloria’s apartment, but heard nothing. Then I continued downstairs.
I walked out of the building and crossed the street to the sunny side when four cop cars screeched to a stop in front of my building. They were immediately followed by two unmarked cars. I stopped walking and stared back at the building and wondered what the hell was going down. A couple of city cops began setting up perimeter blockades. Four men emerged from the unmarked cars. All four had windbreaker style jackets with FBI stenciled in yellow on the back.
A crowd was gathering, and it was up to the SFPD cops to keep people under control and away from the building.
“The fuck’s going on?” I turned my head to see Scatman standing beside me.
“Fuck if I know,” I said.
Moments later, the FBI, followed by a SWAT team, stormed the building, guns drawn. I heard muffled yelling and then a large bang, like a concussion grenade. Shots were fired. I couldn’t tell where in the building the action was happening.
It was over as quickly as it had started. Things went quiet. Walkie-talkies squawked. The cops on the street visibly relaxed. I hadn’t noticed the two ambulances parked on Haight, but now I watched as men in white coats wheeled three stretchers into the building.
A couple of neighbors tried to ask the cops what was going on, but they were brusquely rebuffed. I began to feel the effects of the acid. The lights of the emergency vehicles had become unreasonably entertaining. I jumped when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Tara.
“Shit, man, you’re fucking tripping already?” she said. “This has got to be weird. You know what the fuck’s going on?”
I grinned. “You said to start. And no, I don’t know what’s going on. We must have been living next to some criminals or something.” I handed her the remaining tab of acid. “Let’s head to the park. This shit’s getting too trippy for me.”
We walked the length of Haight, nodding to acquaintances, rebuffing attempts to sell us drugs. I noticed that people I didn’t know were smiling and nodding at me.
“Why are all these people smiling at me?” I asked Tara.
“Because you’ve got a stupid shit-eating grin on your face,” she said. “They think you’re smiling at them.”
“Nice people,” I said.
“Hey, man, wanna buy some Michoacán?” A guy with long, greasy hair, wearing a grimy raincoat and blue jeans, stuck his face in front of mine. He sounded like Cheech. Or, I wondered, was it Chong? I laughed aloud, and the guy’s face transformed into an ugly sneer. I backed away and Tara pulled at my coat sleeve.
I began singing the Doors’ lyrics, “People are strange, when you’re a stranger. People look ugly when you’re alone.”
Tara glanced back at the drug dealer and pulled at me again. “Well, you’re not alone, cocksucker. C’mon.”
I waved at my boss, Marcel, who was standing on the sidewalk in front of his shop on Stanton. He waved back. I leaned into Tara and said in my best French accent, “Did you know that ze Motobecane is ze best bike in ze world?”
Tara laughed. “With that fucking accent, I can’t tell if you’re trying to sell me a fucking bike or coming on to me.”
I continued to hear sirens. I thought maybe they were the ambulances leaving from our building, heading to UCSF Medical Center.
Perhaps reading my thoughts, Tara said, “Jocko and Grease weren’t home when the motherfucking pigs came, were they?”
We crossed into the relative calm of Golden Gate Park. I shook my head. “Nah. But some chick name Gloria came over from next door just before I left. She said her old man was pissed, and she wanted to hide out in our place for a while. I said sure.”
“So, you just left this fucking stranger in our apartment?”
“Well, yeah,” I shrugged. “What, you afraid she’ll steal your jewelry?” I thought what I’d said was hilarious and began laughing.
Tara stopped walking. I stopped laughing. I had taken a few steps before I realized she wasn’t beside me anymore. I turned back. She was looking up into the sky, which was a pastel blue, dotted with fast-moving clouds.
“You hear that?” she asked.
I cocked my head. The trees around me seemed to be spinning on their axes. “What?” I heard only the cars behind me on Stanton.
Tara said nothing for a moment. Then, just as she was about to speak, I heard a helicopter. The sound of its rotors grew loud as it swooped down low and followed Haight Street up from where we’d come. I flashed on a mental image of television coverage of the Vietnam War. Choppers, always choppers. Then I flashed on the body bags being wheeled out of our apartment building. One of them suddenly unzipped from the inside and the head of Mark Maverick popped out. There was a hole where his left eye had been, and he had a grotesque grin on his face.
I cried out, but Tara pulled me into a hug and the image disappeared. The helicopter sounds faded away. When she saw I was all right, Tara released me from her hug and I turned away, embarrassed. We walked on, saying nothing.
We came to a small glen where a group of five men, three Blacks and two whites, were playing bongos and other drums. About a dozen hippies were twirling and dancing to the beat, which was intensely beautiful. Tara started dancing with the others. I stood and stared. I felt each beat deep in my body. It was primal and, in an odd way, cleansing, as if each drumbeat were overpowering all the bad shit within me—fear, horror, guilt—shit I knew was there but wasn’t ready to deal with. I smiled a huge smile and looked up at the sky and the fast-moving clouds and let myself sway to the primitive beat.
Sometime later—it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes—Tara had her arm locked in mine and we were walking again, moving further into the park.
“You don’t think that chick might have been a part of whoever the cops were looking for, do you?” I asked after a while.
“Why would you think that? Did she look like a fucking terrorist or something?” Tara asked.
I shook my head. “No. No reason. She seemed nice. I’d just never seen her before, and it seems kind of coincidental that she came to our pad just before the raid.”
A couple of young guys who were obviously impervious to the cold played Frisbee in a grassy area near the walking path. They were both shirtless. Their long hair flew wildly as they ran for each catch. We stopped and watched them for a few minutes. They were good. There were catches between the legs, throws from around the back, and one great maneuver when one guy dove for the Frisbee and did a neat tuck and roll when he hit the ground.
“Well,” Tara said. “I hope the fuckers didn’t fuck up our apartment looking for that chick.”
Excerpt two:
The night of October 16, 1968, was like so many other nights. Until it wasn’t.
Mark came home from the studio complaining that he’d had to stand in a crowd on the hot set and pretend to talk to a man standing next to him over the course of twenty-something takes. According to Mark, the man had horrible halitosis. From the moment Mark walked through the front door, I braced myself for a long and ugly night. He was already drunk, and he headed for the small bar in the dining room.
The arguing began in the early evening.
The beating began shortly before dinnertime.
We three kids were in the bedroom Leo and I shared. We all heard our mom cry out and moan as the slaps and punches connected. Leo was drawing and humming quietly to himself.
As had become the norm, once the beating finally stopped, Mom retreated from the master bedroom to the small guest room. I gave up pretending to read when I heard her padding down the hall, whimpering. I gave Jennie, who was thirteen, a hug. “Wipe your tears and put away your magazines,” I said. “It’ll soon be time for dinner.”
After Jennie left for her own room, I said through a clenched jaw, “Someone should kill that motherfucker.” I didn’t expect an answer from Leo. He’d grown angry and even more sullen over the past months.
I left Leo in the room and headed for the kitchen. The ranch-style house was quiet. I heard the sound of the shower from the master bedroom as I passed. I heard nothing from the guest room. I put the pan of lasagna, which Mom had prepared earlier, in the oven.
A few minutes later, I was surprised when Mark walked out of the master bedroom, rolling up the sleeves of his starched white dress shirt. His blue jeans were pressed and creased, and his cowboy boots were clean and shiny. His hair was still wet.
Mark did not have his overnight bag in hand. I knew the brown, fake-leather bag was always packed with a spare Dopp kit, underwear, and shirt. I’d looked inside it one day when no one was home. Mark kept it on the floor of their master closet. It was his custom to leave with it after a night of drinking and beating. He’d go to the YMCA, for two or sometimes three nights, and then come home sober and outwardly contrite. He would apologize with profound sincerity and promise he was going to change and it would never happen again.
Even at seventeen, I understood Mom’s self-esteem was so low that she could not conceive of raising three kids without a man in the house, and on a drugstore clerk’s salary. So she would let herself believe Mark’s pathetic promises and let him come back, and everyone would hold their collective breath waiting for the next horrible night.
Footsteps sounded behind me as I bent over to open the oven to check on the lasagna. I smelled my stepfather before I saw him. The man wore far too much cologne—Brut. I assumed it was to hide his perpetual smell of alcohol. I straightened, turned, and was still surprised to see him without his overnight bag. I said nothing.
“Set a spot for me at the table,” Mark said. “I’ll eat with you kids tonight.”
I stared at him for a long beat, still surprised that the motherfucker hadn’t slinked out of the house as per usual. Then I finally nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
Mark moved from the kitchen to the living room and turned on the news. The lead story was about the Mexico City Olympics where gold and bronze medalists Tommie Smith and John Carlos stood on the podium and raised their gloved fists during the national anthem, in protest against racial violence in America. I heard Mark snort in obvious disapproval and then mumble some comment.
When the lasagna was cooked and the table was set, I went to the bedroom and told Leo that dinner was ready and Mark was going to eat with us. Leo didn’t respond. Then I stuck my head in Jennie’s room and told her the same. When I returned to the dining room, Mark was already seated across from my usual place. I’d set a place for Mom but didn’t expect her to join us. The television news droned on in the next room as I plated the lasagna and placed dishes in front of Mark and at the places where Leo, Jennie, and I would sit. Then I sat down.
Back when Mark was first pretending to be a caring stepfather, he’d insisted that the family say grace before each meal. Like most everything else, somewhere along the line that requirement had been forgotten. Tonight, Mark began eating before everyone was seated. I watched as he shoveled lasagna into his mouth, trying to control my hatred. It probably takes a lot of energy to beat a small, helpless woman, I thought.
A string of cheese hung from Mark’s bottom lip to his chin, which he seemed unaware of. I was disinclined to point it out. I liked seeing him diminished, stupid. Despite the strong smell of Brut, I detected the underlying odor of bourbon emanating from his pores, which the shower had opened.
Jennie entered the dining room and took her seat without speaking. She stared at her plate as she ate. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Every so often, her green eyes flicked up to look at Mark, then back to her plate.
I was about to rise to go get Leo when he emerged from the hall. He appeared to have something in his hand, but from my angle I couldn’t tell what it was. I took my first forkful of lasagna and began to chew when Leo caught my eye again. He wasn’t walking around the table to his usual place next to me. Instead, he was approaching Mark’s back.
Without the slightest hesitation, Leo lifted his arm and shot Mark Maverick in the back of his head. There was a flash of surprise on Mark’s face as it erupted in blood. Slowly his head dropped forward into his plate of lasagna. I felt spray hit my face, and when I wiped my forehead, my hand came away red. In my shock I wondered whether it was blood or brain matter or lasagna. I think I uttered some guttural sound before I jumped to my feet and ran to the kitchen. All I could think of at that moment was to get whatever it was off my face.
Jennie’s screaming brought me back to some semblance of reality. I quickly wiped my face and returned to the dining room. I put my arms around Jennie as she shrieked. After long moments I told her to go to Mom and not let her come out of her room. Hesitantly, Jennie nodded and began to rise. But she was too late. I turned to see Mom standing in the doorframe of the room, staring at the slumped-over body of her second husband. I gave Jennie a push and she immediately understood what she was supposed to do. She ran to Mom, who had not uttered a word, and gently guided her back to the guest room.
I turned my attention back to the table. Leo had taken his seat and was eating his lasagna. The gun was lying on the table. Leo must have taken it from the drawer of Mark’s nightstand. I forced myself to look at Mark, but I didn’t have to look long to know for certain the man was dead.
Leo looked up at me and smiled. It was a weird, crazed, almost happy smile. There was still food in his mouth when he said, “I figure I won’t get another home-cooked meal for a while.”
this fleeting moment of life
lucid dreams
swimming and
suddenly drowning
in a river of doubt
this fleeting moment
of life
drifting on a lonely
coast
wishing for the only
love that ever understood
the pain
the unknown tapping you
on the shoulder and making
you pull the trigger
wake up in a cold sweat
alone yet again
you can never escape
your demons if you
never go anywhere
logic does nothing
for a soul trapped
in its own hell
there is only one way out
and we all understand
that is why the shotgun
is still in the corner
eventually,
everyone
gives in
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
to get to the creamy center
she slid down her panties with
ease, eager to receive her gift
i chuckled, hoping she wouldn't
be disappointed
i'm white after all
and i'm sure she's been with
some black guys that would
put me to shame
she laughed, grabbed me
by the back of my neck
and thrusted me into
her ass
i found out how many licks
it took to get to the creamy
center
we spent the afternoon
sweaty and sticky
i lit a cigarette and put on
some coltrane
watched her walk naked
around the house and then
climb back into bed
we laughed and chatted
for hours
drank a little scotch
and a little kissing quickly
escalated into round two
not bad for an old man
who can barely remember
what life was like at her age
----------------------------------------------------------------
all the decay from your soul
embrace the pain
like a purple light
breaking the night
sky
a burning neon
ripping all the
decay from
your soul
like an old lover
that would take
you right to the
edge of losing
your mind and
then take a breath
that sultry air lingers
in your mind to this
day
grab it by the throat
and squeeze the marrow
out of this existence
the broken souls
cracked windows
fields barren for years
a playground of junkies
waiting for the man
there is still time to
find the bent spoons
and a good vein
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
hundreds of miles away now
i still think about
holding you in
my arms as we
used to listen to
old records in the
afternoons after
school
over twenty years
ago
and i can still
remember how
you tasted
how the perfume
on your neck would
drive me crazy
you have moved
on
hundreds of miles
away now
i'm a lonely soul
writing these cries
for help
wondering if anyone
actually reads anymore
i want to live in
a world where love
is still possible
i wonder each day
if i should be saving
my money for a
trip to mars
--------------------------------------------------------------------
the sound advice from the elders
i'm one of those assholes
that never learned his lessons
never stored away the sound
advice from the elders
i had a homeless guy tell me
over stolen cigarettes to never
fuck younger women
the pussy is great but you don't
need the problems and the drama
and there i was today fucking
a younger woman, amazed at
my luck
only to be at odds less than
thirty minutes later, knives drawn
how the fuck can you share
something so intimate and
then be the king of the
assholes minutes later
and my ego isn't strong enough
to not think i did something
fucking wrong
as always, i have to be the problem
forty-five years into life
and nothing fucking changes
rinse and repeat
she had the kind of body that
i will take to my grave smiling
no one ever said you wouldn't
get dirty along the way
you arrived in the rainy season, later came our kisses during the cold July nights i remembered the rainy days & the fire you lit in my body when you crawled into my chest making the joints in my bones restless in ecstasy.
our bodies, like the doorknob during a winter night .tight and cold- // Starring at the image on the wall ,i remembered you left me a memory to cuddle one every morning; maybe with my tears spilling through my smile /then, in the autopsy that carried you in the dust/ & in the cloud where you are; or heaven that gets you close to God, perhaps you will be back in the early sunrise; Outside my window, to paint the walls in my room with songs, like you used to.
