i will become extinct now
because the cows that i love
to eat and drink will have
no more grass to mow
leaving machine processed
foods for nourishment. eliminating
the use of my four-thousand dollar
orthodontic pretty white pearls and
find worth in the five-thousand
dollar allo-derm gum implants.
i will become extinct now as
my thirty-two year-old digestive
system in which has been pumping
iron exercises three times a day
testing it’s strength with an
8 ounce filet mignon will have
no use any longer so long
to my habitual adult grape
juice for the vines will have
no place to grow. soon they’ll be
powderized. they’ll capsulize my merlot.
i will become extinct now as
the sun sets but only
because it’s manufactured
like pirates of the caribbean
ride you don’t know you’re
inside. fake flames. fake heat.
fake sunsets which provoke my
deepest feelings. artificial now
emotions controlled to it’s
purest form snowboarding
on snoopy sno-cone creations.
replacing our Creator with the
lastest inventions. i will
become extinct now.
for i cannot live this way
because my heart is real.
we drove up the 5 freeway.
my nephew, baby jack
was baptized yesterday.
he gave blank stares. smiles.
big, big brown eyes.
as i congratulated him.
he sucked on his finger.
he’s only 1. i asked him
“do you know what
just happened?”
he continued to suck
on his finger. this time
catching a runny booger.
dressed in white satin.
the priest isn’t familiar
with anyone. and i wonder.
who started this tradition.
a crowd of ‘c-and-e’ goers.
now add ‘b’ to their calendars.
their blank stares. smiles.
all our fingers stuck to our cameras.
it was windy and cold. we made
our way to the after-soiree.
i shared a beer with the
God parents. bottle of pacifico.
six flags was near. we were
much more north of everything.
i sucked on my finger.
after the ceremony
we enjoyed carrots
broccoli. tomatoes. and ranch.
on fold-out tables. with
a blow-up jumpy-thing in the back.
as i rapped with neighbors. and
got a taste of their flavor.
i was the outcast. so i wash it down
with kirkland bottled water.
then headed back down
the 5 freeway. my family sleeps.
at 1 am we were interrupted.
to my youngest screaming.
throw-up chunky-things in his bed.
spots of carrots. broccoli. and tomatoes.
in a paste. the sour smell i still can’t get rid of.
still embedded in my nose.
no fever. no symptoms. no one knows.
but he didnt go to school. i called in sick.
got my blank pad. my pen.
i had the night off.
so i called greg to come celebrate
my acceptance into the m.f.a. program.
we planned to grab a
smoke at Red Cloud then
hit Stubrik’s for a guiness stout.
he flaked. to play
poker in Orange.
i kept moving forward.
caring less about the present.
not looking back.
so i took my night to the a.t.m.
pulled out a grand from my savings.
ten benjamins stuffed into my jeans.
i hate money. but this made
me feel good.
like i could
do things
i normally wouldn’t.
taking my confidence for a walk in my city.
thinking it would be cool to boost the commerce.
receiving delight from spending a bill
at the local gift shop.
but when the night came to an end
i still felt personal abandonment.
later. much later. i had nightmares.
of hotels. NFL franchises. and war in Serbia.
hiding in disguises. running for freedom.
the details would make anyone sick.
i tossed and turned awaking at six.
i slipped on the cashmere sweater
with the moth hole in the back. and
my isotoner slippers that grandpa had bought.
headed to downtown
with nine bills in my pocket.
there was no sunshine.
i saw a woman. but couldn’t
make out if she was physically homeless.
i could just tell that her soul was alone and empty.
i took a picture of her. with
my camera phone.
she returned a blank stare.
her hair was duotone.
died red. but growing out at the roots.
born in the late fifties
but very, very cute.
except
the tattooed teardrop
next to her left eye.
i could see her life was much more different
than mine.
i proceeded to hand her nine
one-hundred dollar bills.
they could have been ones
and she still
would have been grateful.
she spoke. i listened.
she was the world’s biggest
loser magnet. except
today when it was an angel
she attracted.
this morning i saw the glow
of eternity. i took another
picture. but it came out blurry.
the internal happiness rushed.
on this day marked december sixth.
a feeling no camera could capture.
not even words. the meaning
of kindness
with acts
[ short story writing experiment. 3 parts written simultaneously from 3 different perspectives. ]
PART 1
It’s Christmas eve at eleven fifteen
p.m.
near Brea’s Best, the 7-11 was still
open.
Right across Brea Boulevard
sat an empty parking lot
and a half-lit sign pulsating Regency Inn.
Issa sold me a half-gallon of milk,
a half-gallon of egg nog.
in exchange for a ten dollar bill as i
wished him a very merry holiday season.
Before i left, we started talking and he
mentioned his friend,
Hamadi,
who owned the Regency Inn.
Issa continued to express how
Hamadi was always depressed
on this night
every year.
He couldn’t understand it
because he was blinded
by all the cash
in his register.
My only response, my only thought:
Hamadi could use a visit.
i bought a 3-pack of candy canes
as a tool to tell him about Jesus.
I jaywalked across — looking
both ways — politely waving
at the big-ass SUV between Ash
Avenue and Elm Street.
Right away i noticed an old Buick.
the only car in the lot
parked
in the labeled “Manager” spot.
The VACANCY sign flickered
but attracted
no business
that night.
The front door lobby greeted me
with a chime and
i returned the welcome by softly saying,
“Hamadi? it’s Christmastime.”
He said, “Hello sir” through his long gray
beard with an accent -don’t know- middle eastern?
He looked through a tired and scraggily
yellowish curtain.
I asked,
“How’s business?”
He looked
puzzled.
I felt dumb, but it broke the ice.
I told him i wasn’t a salesman
but that i was just
being nice.
“Verywell then sir”
speaking of patrons, he
mentioned a mother and her
two daughters
were staying at the Inn. But
i reminded him the parking lot
was only occupied by leaves
blowing in the wind.
Then i questioned,
“is that Buick theirs?”
“No, it’s mine… would
you like a room for the night?”
I had suddenly forgotten about
sharing Jesus and the candy canes.
when i looked across the atrium
the clock had passed into the next day.
Displayed was room one one one
on the placard, well illuminated.
The shadows in the window
had me fascinated
and my head
filled with
so many questions
about the situation.
Hamadi was polite enough to
point out that my jaw
had dropped
to the floor.
I apologized
and excused myself
as i walked out
the front door.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I could have written
a book
about the feelings i had inside.
Arms stretched out wide like an angel,
the woman was standing on the bed.
Like Peter Pan, all three
in their night gowns.
Both girls were hanging ornaments on her
as she twirled around.
I could see the joy, even though
i could not hear a sound.
Their silhouette’s i watched as if it
were a puppet show.
I bet i would get along with them.
i would! I just know.
But i’m aware of how weird
and creepy that seems, so
i continued to watch this
wonderful christmas story.
The girls played patty cake,
patty cake
as mother disappeared into the
restroom.
Returning as the baker’s man
with two face-towel-wrapped
gifts.
One in each hand.
The girls took turns and watched
one another peel back
the terry cloth
wrapping.
From my view, each girl
received the same doll, but
from the inside, came
a light brightening the hall.
That night. There
in that room. There
was agape love,
stars shining bright
from up over head
afar a life gone
right and
the wind picked up, i was
cold. I started crying
realizing
there’s things i had to know.
I approached the door.
it was a silent holy night.
I knocked.
Then vanished.
as i left
the 3-pack
of red and white
stripes.
PART 2
I was supposed to close at eleven
p.m.
But i didn’t. I was late for some
reason.
I was cleaning as
a bug-eyed
gentleman entered my
store smiling.
His smile was unusual
for customers at that
time
of night.
He possessed confidence
as he passed
the clear-door refrigerator
beer-filled aisle.
He found satisfaction
in the furthest section
comparing expirations
on top of the milk cartons.
He continued to smile so
we talked for a while.
No wallet. Just a ten
in his pocket.
Then, i opened my big mouth.
Muhammad, forgive me.
I spilled the beans about
my dear friend, Hamadi.
As he left with the discounted
candy cane 3-pack, egg nog and milk,
i quickly phoned my friend
giving him a cordial alert.
Hamadi never picked up.
I prayed to Allah. I hope he’d be
alright from this intruder,
this Jesus-discipling trawler.
I took my name tag off
and chuckled to myself.
I was wearing Issa’s tag. I said,
“silly Ishaq” in a soft voice.
The clock passed twelve. My
cleaning was done. But my
friend—a clear timebomb. Hamadi
called and could barely speak.
He said he witnessed something
he’s never ever seen.
He told me some man
had walked in and talked to him.
I was frightened inside
until i heard what he
told me and i couldn’t help
but to smile.
A first in so many years.
He laughed and smiled in my ear.
2009’s Christmas eve.
A night he couldn’t believe.
I was a bit confused. But i kind of knew
Hamadi had a newfound glory seeping through.
I packed up and left feeling good
with this new Christmas attitude.
He doesn’t know this
but i was also inspired.
A four-fold was in
order.
So i left 3 tens and 4
fives
under the man’s windshield
wiper.
PART 3
Hello, my name is Hamadi.
I’m sixty-three.
my life changed this year
on Christmas eve.
My wife
passed of cancer
in 1997. And with her, salvation
was uncertain.
I’m still mourning and i’m
overflowing with uncertainty
too. Since her death, i haven’t moved
the Buick.
Was it just because?
Americans celebrating a birth.
I wondered who this fellow
Jesus really was.
You see, my friend Ishaq
never understood me.
His business. His life.
They’re both much different.
We meet in salat
on fridays.
But only because
he is my ride.
Anyways, i don’t like to drive
ever since my wife died.
But i called him last night.
just after midnight
after my encounter with
a man who was mesmerized
by my only client
that night.
This man, a friendly chap,
we carried good conversation.
He even paid $50 cash for the girls
in room one eleven.
The man just vanished
off into the night. and
in the morning
the woman thanked me
for some candy canes
that she thought i had left.
As she continued to tell
me stories about Jesus.
That morning i was
introduced to
a new way of life.
Confirmation that my heart
was right.
So this friday im skipping
salat
and i’m going to take
Ishaq and his family
out
[ one of many flash fiction pieces, but in third person. ]
dwelling in the bull’s pen. lie
the very peculiar mr. prince.
finding himself in a situation.
hiding from a potential mess.
this rodeo. in his imagination.
next to him sat a NASA spaceship.
wrecked. with lettering that stated New England 7 and a sign, “Come In.”
without hesitation, he stepped into this
decorated racing-striped thing and crazy
lights were blinking. as he was thinking,
“what happens next, a visit from Hal Fishman?”
bam. on the console. pops out a television.
with a mercury reflective surface as he sees
his tears drip an unusual color of crimson.
on the screen. level with Hal’s lazy eye.
read a bold italic caption, “Want To Fly?”
electricity streamed as he touched it.
he belted a good scream as he felt it.
tingling. pins and needles. numbed.
a thought bubble above his head read “yes.”
suddenly the sound of an engine and
computer’s voice shouting, “New England 7″
a switching sound, then “Activation.” his
only words, “good ghosts in heaven!”
shaking. rumbling. mid-air suspension.
grab something. quick. anything connecting with
the microphone. sand-bagged stand in an orange
construction cone. a little bird. one wing. broken.
extreme emotion. no one understands. hold on.
speak: he was silent.
unique: be a puppet.
mescaline: tranquilizer.
wresting: pile driver.
ecstasy: pacifier.
reality: he was no higher
than a 5 and a half foot stage.
towering over people half his age.
his mind went blank. as he shot
into space. seeking the truth.
[ i miss the old downtown fullerton. this is in memory of my memories. ]
my city filled with street sounds. nicely covered with the stench of mexican rice. stove top. chili grounds. and spotted with check cashing stores. like a checker board. black. red. no green to be seen. not either side. black marks Starbucks. and red, Target. they’re on every corner. every turn. over my shoulder. in third place, the am pm mini marts. a bp company. sunrise colors. clash with yellow and green. i shop at the liquor/deli on lawrence. support the local theatre. saving old architecture. bike riding past bus stops. dreaming. freedom. child-like lollypops. to reach the barber shop. free cut. in exchange for the paint scheme. and logo. i love trading. free beer. the keg. and the kettle. train depot. the best mexican breakfast burrito. they add potatoes. at the sante fe cafe.
it’s always a beautiful day.
the goodness in cruising around. getting to know the owners of my city. stores. restaurants. bars. cafes. ace hardware. and convenient stores. from the soco district to mcclains coffeehouse. the book ends. capping off. harbor boulevard. after hours. the lights of the drunkards. so pretty. ugly. mainly because that’s not me. trying to get a piece. i stare from the outside. inside my volkswagen. jetta. in peace. better understanding. what it means to be free. that motorcycle cop always sits in the drive of the boba shop. i got a seat belt ticket. and wished him well but was thinking… different. i removed my flip flop to arrange an origami-style cramp in my toe. knuckle pop. the woman supporting 5 children walking the stroller. ignorance gets older. construction hardhat mentality. re-do the sod because they forgot the sprinklers. giving jeri some money. he’s homeless no wonder. but he still supports the liquor/deli on lawrence.
the nine-to-five can’t promise enough. a
burden that only pays for the wood-shingled roof.
come nine p.m. the moonlit macintosh weapons
are exposed as the kids close their eye lids.
jumping into camouflage boxers. and sliding
between the office doors like a detective.
no one sees. or hears. but of the shadows. and clicks.
as the late minutes tick. hunting down tomorrows meal.
it’s three a.m. only remembering how to survive.
the glass of merlot triggers the right side
of a brain that just worked eight hours of mundane
repetitious, politically vicious, corporate templates.
free. flow. relax. go. paper. throw. horizon’s glow.
maybe writing to distract. procrastinating. break.
one. logo. two. brochure. catalog. tradeshow booth.
it’s not easy. this freelance work.
sunrise. knocked out three projects of five.
one hour of billing while mama is yelling
to see what the boys want to eat. choices.
oh choices. coffee. cream. a two-grand invoice.
blood-shot eyes instead of last night’s infra-red.
disguised as half dead. happy. brainless place ahead.
there’s nothing left to do. rushing. through-with.
pick up. left off. put down. right on.
