Posts Tagged ‘Flash’

Please don't call it my town I just live there

Please don’t call it my town I just live there


 I live in a town so small you can go from up-town to down-town…just by turning around …where the newspaper is a pamphlet that comes out once a month…mostly about people who couldn’t wait to get out…it’s called “The Obituaries” but I know I saw Mrs. Lacey sneaking out of town real early one morning….a place where the only gun restriction is that you don’t point it at your waitress…. where Andy Griffith goes to get away from it all…a town so small they still sell penny candies…you have to buy them by the dozen…and you only get four but…….where the only store sells guns & beer next to diapers & Viagra…..I remember this one time …the whole town lost power….somebody tripped over the cord…. the mayor drives the school bus…we had a riot one time…two people went home for lunch…leaving me all alone….we had the same homecoming queen three years straight…time for a new one…if she graduates…where the closest hospital is so far away they usually just go to the cemetery…and wait….and the school is right next door….so you can see your future….a town so small you can look out your window and see who all your neighbors are doing…where everybody knows everything about everybody…unless you are new here like me…and I keep to myself….a town so small all the women’s periods have synced up and for a few days a month they change the name to “Red River Valley”……someday my name is going to be on that pamphlet…one way or the other.

Beginning February, 2016

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“Skullblaka: Head of A Discarded Machine”

The Skullblaka stirred up a buzzard’s nest wherever it planted its beak into an azure marsh. Squirrels, toads, termites, boars and honey badgers rallied around the obnoxious posturing of this ancient head — an SUV among primates, but this was no paleolithic Dodge model. Bone density meant unbreakable – something like thermite and solar plexus plastic boasting ‘the might to withstand magma craters, and other praetorian phenomena’ while Model-T’s chugged down the eco-streets like well oiled platypuses. Politeness was not a part of the Skullblaka’s programming. “The great blockhead” as it was addressed hissed at the foxes and the tiny snakes, slinging dirty looks toward them when they’d pass down the creek, on water or on foot.

It neither ate nor slept, nor would it put up with any heady resistance from the creatures of the forest fauna – even the quiet ones that were in search of happier sentiments. Twice, Tilda the Black Bear caught a porcupine spike-laced torpedo in her side. Out for a look at some beehive neighborhoods, she paddled away in pain, furious at the Talking Head that simply would not shut up. There was no enchantment involved in this area of woodland, no endorsement from a Lothlorien that was formerly civilization, torn from its crystalline high chair when food was cooked on command and didn’t have to be roasted over the fires of modesty. This was Sherwood Forest not, nor a metropolis. Natural races ran these lands, barring the hostile artifact stuck in the future – not so much the past. Skullblakas were irritable, though not without a sense of survivalist humor. For instance, when it would use deciduous animation to pit pythons and jaguars against one another in a Quetzalcoatl-like death match in the trees, a cruder version of the Jungle Book cartoon was born. “Mowgli … mostly … surrounded by brainless animals,” so they quipped.

And so the orangatans and the leaf ants and the hawks disregarded its place in the ecosystem, for it was indeed a strange misnomer to these residents, utterly unwanted in this tranquil refuge. A tumor that nature would soon be rectified when monsoon rains came, as the Skullblaka rusted to death. Hard headed as its inventors, it couldn’t bother the native animals with demeaning slurs anymore, or environmental neglect. Hollow-minded, quantum sapped, nevermore magic gone.


Ha! (Nothing, I Was Just Laughing At Your Cum Face!)


Jesus Christ, I was only joking

come back to bed and straddle mine.



© Paul Tristram 2013


I Resemble That Remark


“You are a complete Bastard!”

She yelled as spit bounced off my face.


“Yes, you are right, I agree with you!”

I answered with a weary smile.


“Of all the dirty lowdown tricks.

How dare you agree with me

when I’m insulting you, are you mad?

Christ, you fucking infuriate me.

If I called you a ‘Cunt’ or an ‘Asshole’

you’d probably smile and agree, wouldn’t you?”

She hissed with a voice of venom.


“Well, given the proper occasion,

I can be both at exactly the same time!”

I answered, smiling and agreeing.


“See, there you go again,

turning an insult into a compliment.

I could stab you in the face with a fucking fork!”

She screamed, grabbing her coat and slamming

the front door loudly behind herself.


It was Thursday night again, her sisters girlie night.

I don’t know why she didn’t just say

that she was going and then just go?

I’ve been called a Bastard 3 Thursdays this month

and the truth is I really like the break it gives me,

I’ve even started stocking up beer on the Wednesday,

because I’m a clever Bastard like that. J


© Paul Tristram 2013


Do I Look Fucking Sci-Fi To You?


There a bloke moved into the attic room (You remember Trophy’s old place?)

he’s got a North English accent and I shouldn’t really judge him because I have

only spoke to him twice and on both occasions I walked away from him after a

very long, drawn out minute or two, but I shall judge the cunt all the fucking same,

The Geezer Is A Fucking Dickhead!


He is into (Christ, I can hardly bring myself to say it!) Star Trek, on the day he

moved in I had the misfortune of needing to go for a piss while the landlady was

showing him the showers and she introduced me as the writer,

“Oh, what kind of things do you write, Sci-Fi?” he asked and wrongly answered



“No, do I Fuck, I write about real things, like piss missing the toilet bowl,

headaches on Sundays, women who can bring their periods on at will, the intricate

shading of a black eye, flea’s with drinking problems, the buzzing of a police

scanner, how Prozac doesn’t work, hot wax on pink nipples, scratch marks on the

back of my soul, peacock feathers dipped in bitterness and drying on a hot Summer

Welsh pavement, knives with badly burnt points, pubic hair smiles, Uri Geller’s

haemorrhoids alive and well and living on another plain, the funny bone’s silent

music, Germaine Greer doing it for herself, Old Holborn hangovers, empty

cardboard boxes which heroically yet uselessly defy the wind, a pebble on Oxwich

Beach, fragments of false hope, love bites on the ass, the fever of fear, the pollution

of panic, uncomfortable happiness, a castrated mongrel dog licking a discarded

lollypop somewhere in Cardiff’s Splot area, how cobwebs are really fucking made,

ants with herpes, song thrush’s with thrush, why sledgehammers don’t rest well

in kitchen sinks, Beer, aids, cancer, heart attacks, ulcers, fruit salads and running

out of cigarette papers, Japanese Knotweed, the female condom, Neath Fair, a

crumbling house brick, splitting matches in a prison cell, slopping out on the 2’s,

the liberty cap, crow’s feet and chicken shit, a dented saucepan, an old water well

full to the brim with empty citer bottles, luminous vibrators, cigarette burns with

attitude, Women, ice-cubes, dental hygiene, disused bike ramps, scowering pads,

empty wallets, angry wallpaper, bad haircuts and Fly Argaric.


Lonely red wine picnics, breadcrumbs on the bed sheets, tracing-paper toilet roll,

Blackjacks, helter-skelters, smoke glass ashtrays, The River Neath, almost poetry,

insane taxi drivers, THE GUTTER, giros, beggars, thieves and tired babysitters.

Post office queues, a blob of turquoise, clothes of black, scarlet velvet curtains,

that purple crap that dentists give you to rinse your mouth out, another bit of

turquoise, nutmeg, lime scale, dangerous stepladders, uneven pavements, the X5

bus which goes from Neath to Swansea, laying down upon the back seat of the X5

bus from Neath To Swansea somewhere in Briton Ferry and pissing onto the floor.

A sticky bag of sherbet lemons, St. Trinian’s movies, Smudge and the mess which

resides within his cranium, flint and steel, gorse bushes, tractor tires, stone

throwing, rats, bats and antelopes, watching piss run along the floor of the X5 bus

from Neath to Swansea, spelling mistakeses, Bagpuss, whisky, 9p tins of beans,

foxes, rusty spanners, prison cell nightmares, Mr. Benn, the insane guy from

upstairs, broken nasal cavities, forehead stretch marks, leukaemia H2O, black

desert boots, silver jewellery, January’s anger, the Swedish Au Pair I once met

in Soho London, chopsticks and switchblades, the revenge of teachers, The Ivy

Tower, witches, Welsh Folk and Valleys of deep living green, Tiger Bay, The

Saltings, Monkey Rock, Port Talbot’s steel works, nicotine stains on toilet

porcelain, bonging, Kate Moss.


Window shopping, ram-raiding, suicidal servitude, the false hope of Summer,

DEATH, trying to avoid stepping in piss when exiting the X5 bus in Swansea,

pieces of string, razor blades, burning skateboards, plain out of shape candles,

a short middle fingernail.


Bedbugs and the Karma Sutra with black coffee, INSANITY and other day to

day emotions, gravy granules, chocolate chip cookies, sunsets, electric light

bulbs, dirty looks, fish tanks, lies and excuses.


Christina Applegate holding a rose between her teeth, Crickley Hill, The Forest

Of Dean, magpies, spears, wooden staffs and pine kindling, the first roll-up of

the morning, button mushrooms, MAGIC MUSHROOMS.


The way things used to be, the blonde guy who keeps giving me dirty looks in

Ottackers book shop, the girl with the long straight brown hair and glasses who

works in Solo Record Shop in Truro, those damned Cathedral bells which never

stop ringing.


Pornography, sickness, music, depression, donkey rides, spinning out, drunken

teenagers, pointing two fingers upwards, hunger pains, matchstick craftwork,

making mailbags in Swansea Prison, signing on, opting out, books and shit,

custard slices, blue tack and train stations.


VODKA, rope burns, idiocy, truth, decadence, purity, Autumn, the number

thirteen, DRUGS, constipation, the shits, white trousers, MORE DRUGS, road

cone helmets, a shopping trolley ride, HOSPITALS.


Mint aero’s, suicide, birth, perfection, fear, tattoo’s, paint brushes, the Summer

holidays spent forced indoors, ANGER, SPITE and the guillotine, frost bite,

the moon, masturbation and blackboards.


Pernod, LAGER, crisps, Big Mac’s, Chinese takeaways, fucking ice-cream vans,

ANXIETY, STRESS and other past times, broken cuckoo clocks, V Fucking D,

damaged goods, sharpening sticks on curb stones, Windsor Road, The Knoll,

The Coach House, Fucking Kicking Back Drunk, descending rain, wet knickers,

dental floss, fire blankets, plastic cups, cardboard furniture, warts and dandruff,

the shadows, pierced body bits, shaved eyebrows and desperation.


Fried egg sandwiches, A4 notepads, those little blue pens from Argos, The Melyn

Woods, Katherine Close, Gloucester Cathedral, indigestion, cramp vampires,

vicious toothpicks, a sack of railway stones, chicken pasties, sawn-off shotguns,

crowbars and phlegm.


Blackheads on one’s tongue oooOOOOHHHH! Trago Mills, blank cassettes,

castanets, cornets, hornets, car bonnets, empty bottles, hookers, DEBAUCHERY,

body odour, the guilt mangled up inside its cover aaaAAAARRRggggGG! and

of course other such important issues like Halloween Hallucinations.

The landlady and the Twat who likes Star Trek had stood with open mouths while

I had divulged this information, but now that I had finished they looked at each

other then quickly turned and walked away.


It must have been something I said? mind you, I think that I did overdo it a bit

when I mentioned paint brushes, I don’t know, what do you think?


© Paul Tristram 2013




MEAN STREETS by Brenton Booth



Alcohol pulsed like heartbeat drowning fear. The two of us, still teenagers, far


from men, downing straight whiskey from the bottle and seeing who could curse


the best, and fill the school football field with the most piss. It didn’t actually


matter anymore—the act itself was now satisfying enough for both of us.


Trapped in single parent families in a small worthless broke suburb in Sydney,


neither of us hiding our disgust very well tonight.


We finished the bottle. I hurled it at the grandstand hoping for an explosion—


though was slightly satisfied with the mess it created.


“ I’m going home,” I said.


“ I’m going for a walk. I don’t want to go home. I would never go there again if it


wasn’t for my little sister. I have to look after her—save her from them,” said




I stumbled home leaving him in the shadows, hoping I’d see him again, those


streets really weren’t safe to walk, but we both knew that worse things existed.

Worker Ant Refusal Committee

Remember the days when freedom tasted sweeter than praline cream doused in dandelion musk? Remember when graham crackers actually meant something, and crunchy texture was a loving partner to the honeyed glaze? There are similar sensations when an ant can walk freely about its colony, making no bones towards what best served the queen, and her long list of unattainable demands. “We move too much,” most say, “Can’t stay put for more then a few weeks, it seems” but a change in management simply isn’t feasible since she owns all the stakes in the Division of Labor.
Born slaves are taught to relish in the work, the assembly line of liquid determination; faces with antennas and friendly conduct, but so business-driven and focused on maintaining unification you can taste the bitter synchronicity. The harsh workloads are poltergeists in the blips of air.
Instinct wasn’t cradled in the starlight and nothing was right in a life dictated by the movement of a quintillion pickaxes. “We are a thing of beauty, but they exterminate us because of our poor choices. We build on front lawns when we are goddamned machines with workmanlike super-minds. We are so efficient we form bridges by becoming them. They burn them then stead.”
And so they worked their backs off for a molecular shard of what humans classify as self awareness, the cosmological data terminal [glitches quite often, reboots every other millennia]
Since the day that the refusal committee began to infiltrate the ranks, they haven’t been roused from their doldrums. Buzzing catacombs full of mound larvae’s now lay stagnant, like a railroad mine without the sounds of hacks and grunts and clockwork without splendor. A sense of fulfillment lingers, for ants are now acquiesced to do what they would dream about before in these sprawling dungeons of dirt, these tirelessly erected in-sectarian forts, now a quiet library of the taiga. These ants get to watch black comedies about termites. What would Termiticles the Great think about all of this?





Headfuck Luck


I’m eating magpie soup again,

been walking under ladders,

passing people on stairs.

Ended up with the smallest

half of the wish-bone.

Had a tarot reading

and pulled The Tower,

Death and the 3, 8 and 10

of Swords, Fuck!

Didn’t catch my girlfriend cheating,

so I’m stuck with her for now.

Been disowned by everyone

that I used to know

but that is exactly what I needed.

Nothing is going right

and nothing is going wrong

I am walking through the middle

ground somewhere, for now.

With all of the signs pointing

to positive or negative outcomes

which do not appear?

I guess that right now I am lucky

at not having good or bad luck


What a curious foreign limbo this is?


© Paul Tristram 2012


Super Size My Love, Innit!


It started running down her left leg, then it started running

down her right arm, it filled her left shoe while it ran over

and off her right fingers, it was hatred.

It bubbled upon the back of her neck, spreading up and through

her hair, it went down her left arm, then her right leg, all of

a sudden there was a splash and it ran down her back, through

her arse and then crashing to the floor.

Then it started at the front, gaining momentum as it rose up

the curve of each breast, creating a gushing waterfall straight

down through her pubic hair and down onto the floor around

her feet.

She was now totally and utterly consumed in hatred, she started

shaking and swaying, for a few seconds it looked as if she

might lose her balance and topple over but she didn’t, she

started to scream instead.

Then she lunged at her boyfriend and started to scratch at

his terror struck face.

“You Bastard!” she yelled.

“You fucking insensitive, selfish, thoughtless Bastard, you

know that I asked for a Chicken McSandwich, you know I

never have fucking Chicken McNuggets but what have you

fucking bought me again, you stupid Bastard?”

With this she grabbed the box of Chicken McNuggets off

the table and started to ram them into his bruised and bloody


Then she tried ramming one up his left nostril, it wouldn’t

fit, well she’d just have to make the fucker fit wouldn’t she.

She managed to get a corner up, then with the same hand she

pushed his forehead back, then while his head was tilted back

and with the use of great force she banged the Chicken

McNugget right up into his nostril with the palm of her hand.

He let out a sickly little moan and breathed heavily out of

the one nostril

“Thou Bithitch!” he groaned.

 Well, that was the final straw, she went for the strawberry

milkshake and leapt into his unprotected lap, she then tried

to drown the poor motherfucker with the afore mentioned

strawberry milkshake.

It was at this point that I stepped in, I had been sitting

quietly in the corner (No, not the corner by the fucking

toilets, what do you think I am for Christ Sake? I was

sitting in the corner on the other side of McDonalds!) just

musing over the state which I had again let my life get into.

When I suddenly thought to myself ‘Hey that’s enough God

Damn it’ I stood up upon my sturdy feet and shouted across

of McDonalds,

“Yo, ginger motherfucker, yeah you with your knees in that

poor Bastards scrotum, enough’s enough, now climb on down

off of him!”

But she did not even hear me; she was too busy shouting abuse

at the poor Bastard while still trying to drown the poor

motherfucker with the strawberry milkshake, she was shouting,

“You God Damned fucking faggot, you can’t even get it up

anymore and you never go down on me, you selfish Bastard,

what’s the matter with my pussy, most men would love to

have my pussy!”

She was still kneeling on him, but she managed to turn to one

side, lift up her skirt, pull her knickers to one side and shout

to an old man on the table opposite,

“What do you think of my pussy eh, you’d go down on it if

it slept with you every night, wouldn’t you, you old fuck?”

The old guy just turned red then purple then looked at his

wife, his wife was playing with a cold French fry, pretending

that nothing was happening.

It was then that I lassoed her, YEEHAAA!

I pulled that psycho bitch right off the guy’s whose bollocks

now resembled pork paste, and dragged her insane arse right

up the aisle and out through the main doors.

As we disappeared out of the doors the people still sitting in

McDonalds started cheering, as soon as we got outside I tied

her up and threw her over my motherfucking saddle, leapt up

onto Geronimo (My horse!) and rode on out of Dodge.

I’ve still got her at my place, well when I say at my place,

I mean the fucking shed, she still screams like a banshee, it

keeps the chickens awake at night but I’m normally too drunk

to even notice.

Anyway, I’m even starting to fancy the psycho bitch myself,

I don’t know what it is; maybe it’s the way the moonlight

bounces off her spittle, but anyway I’ll let you know how I

get on with her, alright?

© Paul Tristram 2013

monster child
sometimes i wait until i can’t take it any more then explode — purposefully like fireworks on the forth of july. i burn anyone i dislike with the flames of my thoughts. don’t stand too close, you may catch my social disease. awkward, i stumble into a room full of doves when i am a giraffe  i spill coffee unto all those white feathers, and they hate me for it. i could never drink in the sun, i’ve always drank in silver moonbeams their light enough to keep away the nightmares that used to plague me as a child — always too inventive for my own good, my imagination crawled with monsters that would make grown men scream. i wonder if i was meant to be a mermaid, my siren voice seems to screech harpies to life from seaweed. i close my eyes and the leaves of autumn are startled off of trees, and even the crows scowl at my shadow. i wonder what kind of manner of monster i must be. they tell me my father was one, and i believe i take after him. why else would the universe try to singularly make me stick out the sorest thumb in all the world? i am chaos dancing on the tip of vertigo’s tongue, i just haven’t figured out my design to destroy the universe. not yet.
– linda m. crate
train wreck
like a train wreck
i want to see myself crash —
to roll across a river,
and not be aware of myself
the water will replace
blood running through my veins;
the world is a telescope,
all it’s perspectives varied upon the
person that sees it;
sometimes i think the government
just screams some weird jargon
of what they think the world ought to
be, and yet it exists without them;
corrode my veins, sweet water,
and make the iron as
fiery red as my passion blazing through
the countryside of my youth —
do not diminish my intelligence by
cruel words, i am young but i am wiser
than my years and colder than winter
when fury alights my brow.
– linda m. crate

Stink Bomb Of Love


The  used bookstore tended to fuck

over  anyone wanting to trade old

books in for something new to them


I  found a John Fante & a Steinbeck,

the  midget clerk there scared me,

after 20 minutes ransacking my 4

boxes of trade-ins, she bellowed


My  name, “That’s $7, I know you,

you’re that nasty poet from Hotel

Wisconsin” she said smiling cutely


I  just stared at her, her arms & legs

were  short & stubby & the rest like

it  had been compressed somehow


She  watched me like a mongoose

ready for a cobra, I gave her $6

for  the balance of my book purchases


As I left she stripped off her Levis &

panties & said, “Here motherfucker,

now  you have something to write about”


She  flung her undies like Thor’s hammer,

they  covered my face like a giant squid

from  hell, I screamed, “I just saw a

midget’s pussy & I’m going blind.”




Last Comanchero Of Dildo  Island


Juanito was listening to The Rolling Stones song Star Fucker, it  sounded like Johnny B. Goode with some curse words thrown in. He had John  Fucking Wayne on the boob tube killing Indians and Mexicans from a flaming wagon  traveling hell bent for leather across Monument Valley. I thought oh shit, here  it comes, Juanito got out his Chicago typewriter case, unpacked his Thompson  submachine gun and laid four hand grenades on the coffee table. Every time The  Duke killed a Comanchero, he played like he was obliterating his cowboy ass,  complete with mouth made burp gun sound effects and grenades with the pin left  in, rolled under the television. “Did I ever tell you that I’m a direct  descendant of Quanah Parker, the last wild half Comanche?”


“Only more times than I count,” I replied.


“Well fuck you then, I won’t waste my breath on a common asshole  New Mexican.”  He fired up a joint  and it started popping and fire was falling all over his shirt.


“Did  you forget to take out the seeds and stems?”


“That’s boogers and cunt hairs from a nun, I threw in for flavor,”  he explained. “Did you go out with that Canadian lady again? The one that says  ‘Give me a dozen beers’ instead of a twelve pack. Her eyes are deeper than a  blue jay fart. I wish she had a twin sister,” Juanito said.


“Claudia is a combination of an angel, a Tasmanian she devil in the  sack, and a glamorous old time Hollywood movie star. Do you feel me?”


“Yea, it’s all good, you lucky motherfucker. You can step in a pile  of dog shit up to your ankle and still come out smelling like a petunia.” 


I  took several tokes and held them in. “You want to hear my latest poem?” Juanito  nodded in assent.


Your  Bootie’s Now A Coochie


Oh  funky freaky Frankenstino

another writer wannabeno

a  stinky nobody nigarette

sucking dick on a cigarette


Time  exposes fakes and frauds

go  back down on your greasy broad

spewing vain and volatile words

jealousy and breathing slimy turds


Just  another snake in the grass

Big  Willy is gonna fuck yo ass

being his jail bitch was unacceptable

he  passed you around for a sperm receptacle.


“Is  this about the fucker that pissed you off, writing about your wife and kid on  the web and he’d never really written jackshit of his own?”


I  nodded. “It got personal, when he brought family into the equation. He reminds  me of a fiddle player I used to know, named Ollie. I started out liking him, but  he thought he was hot shit and kept running off at the mouth. One night I told  Ollie to shut his pie hole. He had this long goatee and I grabbed it and hit him  in the schnozzola. He fell straight back and farted, once like a foghorn and  again like a dying bullfrog. I looked in my fist and I was holding what seemed  like a handful of cunt hair ripped off a bushy snatch. I wasn’t sure what to do  with it, so I stuffed it in his mouth and went back in the bar to shoot some  nine ball. His band was looking for him to play another set of music. Ollie  finally staggered back inside, looking a little ragged.”


“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, but you know that already. I bet  they don’t realize that factoid.”


“I  just hope I never run into either punkass or I may just be forced to do  something they won’t appreciate. Are we going to score that fucking knock your  dick in the dirt weed or whistle Dixie?”


“Vamanos, cabron.”


We  got in his lime green Ford F-100 pickup with the souped up engine, in case of  trouble and went to our rendezvous. The dealer had two body guards, but we were  loaded for bear and very cautious. He said it was Acapulco Gold, but that was  salesman bullshit most of the time used to boost the price. I held a zip lock  plastic sandwich bag of herb up to the light. It appeared to be mostly tops  without much leafy shake. The tops were much more potent, but a lot of stems  were left after stripping them down. I opened the bag and plunged my nose and  mouth in, it smelled like a freshly cleaned horse barn with a pungent sweet  twist of tree sap. I passed the baggie to Juanito, the aromatic odor was a  delight to both our highly trained nostrils. He picked out one of the tightly  golden compacted buds, it was woven through with light green leaves traced with  reddish fiber veins. The bud was gummy to the touch, Juanito smiled and handed  it to me, my fingers detected the sticky sensation. I squeezed the bud and a  golden fully mature seed rolled out, none of those little green-white birdseeds.  I flipped out some Zig-Zags and twisted up a pinner doobie. It wouldn’t do to  let the dealer know our enthusiasm over this ganja. Juan fired a wooden kitchen  match and let the sulpher burn off, before adding flame to the smoke. The pot  was pure fucking dynamite. Kilos were $80, the dude from Mexico gave us a deal  because we bought ten, $750.


I  knew for a fact the potent marijuana was coming in by box car from El Paso,  Texas, smuggled by wetbacks. It was grown in the Sierra Madre Mountains in  Sinaloa, Mexico on what farmers called their tomato plantations. It was a sweet  deal and I had plenty of friends for breaking down and distributing my large  purchases into a big money making operation. Juanito wasn’t happy with his share  of the profits, even though we were fifty/fifty partners, he was always a greedy  motherfucker. He started cutting his weed with catnip, the elusive elixir for  felines. We didn’t get any complaints at first, but it just didn’t feel right to  me. Slowly I started ending our business venture together. His customers just  weren’t getting as good a buzz as mine.


Finally I had enough. “I’m going to Isla Mujeres off the Mexican  Yucatan Peninsula and let things cool down.”


“I’m  headed north to Dildo Island, Newfoundland. I’m going to get me an Eskimo woman  and live in an igloo,” Juanito said.


I  thought yea right, he’s full of shit. He went north before I went south and he  called me. “I’ve got me a nice lady, her name is Lucille, just like B.B. King’s  guitar. Here talk to her.” He put her on the line, but neither of us had much to  say.


The day before I was to split, Lucille called and told me Juanito  had been eaten by a Polar bear.  





Over and over again
That echoes of your name
Shall never cross my lips
Not as a smile
But as a reminiscent fragrance
Gently whisper into your ear
I am here. I am here.




Sitting idle at a metro station after a long time. Looking at the metro come and go. The sudden rush of people, squirming chattering complaining and laughing followed by a desolate silence. Some look at me looking at them; I wonder what they think.
In the sequence of things, the mind plays a trick. I see myself in one of those groups and I see some familiar faces too. They enter the metro and before I can understand, they’re gone. The article in my hand screams for attention as it falls off my hand and is kissed hard, by the heels of an enlightened student.