tiny fuzzy goat-man
four chins and hairy shoulders
shimmies as he dances and prances
mingles and mixes with vixens
and manner of wild beasties
who gorge on feasties or
finesse feats of frankness
pawing the floor and rearing
clamoring to claim the last clam
or juicy bit of ham
welcome to the fete
welcome to the ball
satyrs all
Her direct gaze was unnerving. I saw intelligence, wile, and hunger there.
She turned her head, pointing her chin west, the sun no more
than a memory in the star strewn sky, then leveled her gaze once again on me.
My body was immobile though my heart raced, running
rabbit-scared within the cage of my ribs. The hair on the back of my neck rose
along with ripples of gooseflesh across my arms.
In slow motion I swiveled my head east. She mirrored me.
Together, we watched the full moon rise. We tipped back our heads and howled, teeth
gleaming in the nocturnal light.
The word smith sits, smitten with
stories and tall tales and poetic justice
pen racing across lined paper
striving to capture meaning in secretive lines
and squiggles containing
strategically placed air holes though air is heavy
with heady concentration no
constipation of thought allowed just freeform
flowing creation.
Hub rolled down the street. Her long, thin legs propelled her
quickly, efficiently. When she was a child, the kids on her block called her
licorice legs, but she had grown into them. They were, in fact, one of her best
features.
She was only a few paces from the corner store when a voice
called out. “Hub. Hey Hub. I got something for you.”
It was old Missus Fitzsimmons from the mission, waving to
her from across the street. She always seemed to appear out of nowhere when Hub
really, really needed something, or someone, even if she herself didn’t
recognize the need.
Hub turned and strode toward the elderly lady, who stood
still, apparently grateful that she needn’t bother her arthritic knees and
swollen ankles with unnecessary locomotion.
Missus Fitzsimmons looked up at Hub and smiled.
“Hey Missus Fitzsimmons. How are you today?”
“Just fine Hub. Just fine. I’m so glad to see you.”
Based on the way she was beaming, Hub knew she meant it.
Missus F had been with the mission long before Hub found herself devoid of parents
and a place to live. She was always kind and welcoming, encouraging Hub and
others from the neighborhood to take seconds in the soup kitchen, and knitting
mittens for them all for the cold winter months. She never seemed to tire of helping others.
“Hub, a letter came for you today.”
The mission let Hub and others who were ‘between homes’ list them as a
permanent address. They were expected to stop by every few days to pick up
anything that had arrived.
Missus F pulled a fat white envelope from her handbag and
held it out to Hub. The return address was Columbia College. Hub’s heart
stopped and her breath caught.
The distraction contraption
captures eyes and minds
fracturing focus
You won’t know why your
decisions are diverted and
your mind muddled but
it’s the way it goes
and goes and goes
A passion for distractions
led Miss Mindy to
derail her details
upsetting Arnold’s apple cart
and Sally’s side gig
Focus was foregone and
forlorn Frida fell faint
Danny ditched their date
his focus glued to
a new gadget
He lost all track of time
poking and stroking his
iThingy until a bell in his head
went dingy and he remembered Frida
alone at a table with a plate of Alfredo
on a summer’s Friday night
Black crow
Watch your strut
Bob your head
Tut tut tut
Don’t think too hard
Just go with the flow
When it’s right
The flow will know
Black crow
Bob your head
And you will see
What keeps you fed
Squirrel and rabbit
Deer and cat
You duck and jive
‘Nough to keep you fat
Black crow
Dip your beak;
Below your feet
Is all you seek
Flap your wings
Shuffle your feet
Lift off to the trees
Though you want more to eat
Black crow
Watch the street
Knowing fast cars bring
More meat
Watch your strut
Bob your head
Shuffle those feet
Feast on the dead
Bitsy woke with a snarl in her hair and an itch in her
belly. Mamma would say that she’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, but
she put her feet down on the same piece of floor as every other morning. It was
her only option. The opposite side of the bed was snug against the wall to make
space for her baby sister’s crib on the other side of the room. She grumbled
her way down the hall and to the kitchen table.
It was dark so Bitsy sat down to wait. The hard chair
bothered her bottom and the itch in her belly grew. The clock above the stove
showed 12:20 am, but since she could not yet tell time, she had no idea that breakfast
was a long wait away. No matter, Bitsy was not renowned for her abiding
patience and after five minutes of excruciating inactivity, she decided to get
it herself.
She scraped her chair across the floor. Next, she monkeyed
up to stand on the seat and reached for the box of Sugar Bombs perched on the
fridge. She stretched every inch of her 5-year-old body, but her fingers merely
grazed the edge of the elusive box and pushed it further from her grasp. It was
now wedged against Mamma’s favorite candlesticks that lived atop the fridge to
keep them from harm’s way.
“OK Bitsy,” she said to herself. “Think. How can you make
yourself taller?”
A flush of pride rose through her as the solution became
apparent.
Bitsy rose up and onto the very tips of her toes like the
ballerinas she saw in Cinderella at the Grand Theater last week. Still not tall
enough.
She began to bounce. Not quite. She executed a small leap
reaching far enough to knock the box of breakfast delight into the candlesticks
sending them all flipping off the edge of the fridge. Cereal rained down like
confetti, light and colorful. Unfortunately, Bitsy did not have time to enjoy
the view or imagine that she was a hero in a parade because the candlesticks,
made of heavy crystal, fell faster than the cereal and whacked her on the head.
This triggered the backward descent of the chair on which Bitsy landed heavily,
smashing the candlesticks into even smaller pieces.
Heavy steps hurried from Mamma and Pappa’s bedroom just as
Bitsy, now covered in blood and breakfast cereal, realized it was not really
the time for breakfast after all.
“Ah, Cooper? Why is unicorn blood on our shopping list?”
“Because,” he replies, absorbed by the Lego castle he’s
constructing.
What am I going to do with this kid? Since we’ve been
sequestered at home 24/7, he’s actually become less communicative. I would’ve
thought that with all the time we spend together, just the two of us, we’d be
practically telepathic by now.
“Cooper. Would you please look at me?”
I watch him struggle to divert his attention from his
elaborate creation and turn his gaze in my direction.
“I need you to help me understand why exactly we need
unicorn blood. Can you do that?”
He sighs and rubs his hand across his temple, an elderly man
in a nine-year-old child’s body. I am obviously trying his patience.
“So, you remember reading the Harry Potter books when I was
little?”
“I do remember that,” I respond.
Cooper and I had spent weekends and evenings in the early pandemic,
a full year ago now, plowing through Rowling’s hefty tomes. The neat resolution
at the end of each book gave us a sense of control that we didn’t have in the
real world what with my company shutting down, schools going virtual and my mom
succumbing to COVID-19. We found the suspense and magical twists in the Harry
Potter series preferable to the reality of the death and economic devastation
in our everyday reality.
“Cooper, what does Harry Potter have to do with our grocery
list?”
“Well,” he rubs his chin where whiskers are likely to sprout
in six to seven years. “I just thought it would be good to have some unicorn
blood on hand, just in case.”
I walk over and sit next to him on the rug.
“Just in case what, Buddy?” I gently rest my hand on his
back.
Cooper looks down, fiddling with the draw bridge at the
front of his Lego castle. He picks up the tiny Lego queen and the tiny Lego
prince, moves them into the center of the castle, and abruptly slams the draw
bridge shut.
“Well, if you remember,” he says, “unicorn blood can bring
you back to life even if you’re an inch from death. And I thought we should
keep some on hand just in case COVID finds us.”
He looks up at me, hope and fear mingled in his beautiful
eyes.
“Oh, that’s right,” I respond, squeezing his shoulder. “Good
thinking.”
He favors me with a tremulous smile. I stand, reach out for
his hand, and help him to his feet.
“C’mon. Let’s see if Costco can add it to our grocery order
this week.”
day dawned dour
patter of rain splatters on
my window woke me
long before the alarm
the harm to my psyche severe
my mood muddled
in puddles left in landscape dips
worms wriggle across my drive
congregating to contemplate this spate
of soaking weather
and whether to return to grass or
sacrifice their lives on
treacherous asphalt beneath
beneath a lumbering car
The bubble moon rose
and froze
white on the indigo sky.
No male visage
smiled out,
but feminine arcs,
concentric
crests and caves
graced her surface.
She glanced off ponds
amid flowered fields
and glassy windows
set in sleeping houses
bringing sweet dreams
to all below.
She traced by her past. A straight line here. An arc there. A hint of something forgotten. A subtle bite at the edge of memory.
Something flitted past the edge of her vision, but in the
instant it took her to turn her head, whatever it was disappeared.
Kara recalled her mother stating that, “Growing old wasn’t
for sissies.” Although the comment was usually accompanied by a wry smile, the
reality was incontrovertible. Mother had fought age with each strand of her
dyed black hair and a determination worthy of an Olympic athlete. When she died
last year, at the age of 65, it was with a roar. But mother had always lived
life to the hilt. Maybe that’s why Kara had done the same.
Kara turned five the year Mother turned 30. They celebrated
with a single candle perched atop a cupcake. Mother’s friends were all there,
filling ashtrays with soot, glasses with gin and the air with laughter and
expletives. It was a helluva celebration. The next morning, Kara had her own
private celebration. The fresh five-year-old was up at 8:00 and while her
mother slept, Kara collected the cups, guzzling any remains before stacking
them by the sink. She was woozy by 8:30 and looking for more by 10:00. Mother
slept until noon.
From there, life rolled on. By eight she was filching
cigarettes from ash trays and warm beer from the ever-present case on the
porch. At 11 she smoked her first joint, shared with her by her mother’s
boyfriend of the moment. By 13 she was popping uppers. From there it was a
short trip to harder and harder drugs until she woke up at 24, a worn-out bag
of bones, selling what flesh she had left to finance her next high. And
pregnant. This time, too far along for an abortion. She gave the baby to social
services and walked away. But she couldn’t forget.
She thought often of the girl she’d sweated to birth. Tiny
and wrinkled and carted away as she squalled, too soon to see her eyes. It was
for the best. She knew it, but she wondered if that tiny girl grew into a good
life. A healthy person. She hoped so.
Kara took a last drag on her cigarette. The tidy breeze snagged
the smoke and dispersed it in the atmosphere. Rehab hadn’t been easy, but she
was determined to make it this time, or die trying, roaring and kicking and
spitting.
She stood and walked into the building, followed by the
shadow of who she’d been, her soul pricked by the memory.
City on the shore above ground and below water. Which is real and which is vision-magicked? Both shimmer in summer sun and slight city smog. Both see life dart and dive in, out and about without seam. A dream of harmony. Elements ignited and united in muted mirror images.
Aoife and Adrien part 2
The cart bumped across the rutted road and the gully left by
a stream long dead. As she walked, Aoife noted the small clumps of dried dirt
sent flying by the turning wheels. No one rode in the cart. It was used to haul
their precious wares from town to town.
Aoife was sure she’d already walked from one end of the
earth to the other, and halfway back. She was tired. And hungry. Yet the
caravan would continue moving until dusk which meant at least two more hours of
walking.
She heard the dogs who always ran at the front of the group
bark and yip. Had they sighted a rabbit, or maybe a deer? She hoped so. It
would be good to have meat tonight.
The snake of carts and wagons moved around some obstacle
ahead. As she neared, she saw it was a child with snarled dark hair. A boy who
seemed to be about her age though he was taller. He stood at the edge of a
crossroad watching the passing people, animals and carts. He was very thin and
his clothes were little more than rags, yet he stood with an easy confidence
that captivated her. As she neared him, she pulled an apple from her pocket and
rubbed it against her sleeve. He watched her hands through lowered lashes,
hunger painted on his face.
When she reached him, Aoife stopped, the waning sun in her
eyes. Their shadows stretched long across the dirt. She held the apple out to
him. Their fingers touched as he accepted it, and a thrill of recognition ran
through her. She knew he was special. Aoife held his gaze and just as she was
about to speak to him, a gruff shout broke their reverie.
“Aoife,” her uncle bellowed from the cart he drove at the
back of the caravan. “We’ll not wait for you. Leave that scruff of a boy and
get moving. There’s wild and hungry beasts along this trail and you’ll not wish
to meet them once the sun goes down.”
The boy bowed briefly to Aoife before turning and running into
the forest, apple still in hand. He didn’t notice that he left without his
shadow. It stayed joined with Aoife’s, held by her foot. She bent down,
carefully gathered the boy-shaped umbra and gently, ever so gently, tucked it
in the large
locket she wore around her neck.
She looked toward the trees one last time before running to
catch up with her people.
