s. s. III

s  u  m  i    s  t  o  n  e    #  3

V

IN THE OPEN

A blacker cat walked the block 

on the far side

It’s tail tall and straight

A periscope

Peering above 

it’s quick-fluid glide

a Flicker whips the air

Head swivels

nerves twitch

Out - in - the - open

Is not its

favorite

place

Alley cats are just that way

Give them a long, dark, dirty canyon

Any day

And the rats?

Upon which they prey?

You don’t see them

on the sidewalks

Comin' out to play

And a cat's gotta

Go with the rats

Deeper thoughts 

run down 

my dark alley

   They run away

  Like it or not

      They just run away

And I can’t call

because

I got no say,

Anyway
...and besides,

Out - in - the - open

Is not my

favorite

place

too

 V

THE FLASH FINI

Here’s what I know. It’s 8 o’clock and it’s Tuesday.

The sun is just about to set…three, two…one….flash….gone.

It must be…what?…August?…June?…that’s why we had almanacs. I sense it’s warm, as I grow cold.

I’ll tell you something else. Do not adulate my passing. Get a wooden boat – used and cheap, because you might decide to light the torch, and do so with my permission, if you need it, (and I suspect you won't). Then, set us afloat in no particular direction, and with no great excesses.

What would you call it? 
...'A flaming Viking funeral' ? 
I don’t know.
but, I'm curious

Set me adrift and

Then sit on the beach

and drink me

bon voyage

you'll all be 
entertaining me

if you sat 
loudly 
defaming me

with your

foul mouthed

declarations

Brilliance is

as long as it is…

a flash is just a flash,,,

it IS,

     yet, it is gone

in the same moment…

as the same flash

happens elsewhere
...and so on.

We can only aspire

To be that glint
for eternity
but that would depend 
on one's perspective
and we can't 
be everywhere 
at once...
             or 
                    can 
      we ?

√

BAD CHORIZO

His first words were "...bad chorizo..." which, given the legacy…looking back…well, it was quite a turning point in his life. I mean, without chorizo, why he…

But, wait…my thought processes have grown like weeds – here, there…often randomly out of the cracks in my head, so I get ahead of myself, and have grown so used to having a personal dialogue, well... I sometimes get involved to the point that I have them out loud. People hear, and they wonder...

My Apologies. Let me clear this up:

Bill would eat a can of stew at lunch each day, same stew, everyday, except for Fridays, when he’d slip away (sometimes the Springs, sometimes the Track...) Same blue can, with yellow circle…’Betty’?…’Susie-something-stew'?…’Ann’ something? 
He cooked right there in his old pan on a hotplate, then eat sitting at his cluttered desk, soda cracker crumbs and gravy-stained blotter....you could tell if Bill signed your check at lunch, as he often did, because there'd be ‘smears’. He didn’t mind the mess, and he wanted you to appreciate his thrift. He was ‘a grunt’ just like you, slavin' through lunch.

Of course us boys didn’t drive the same class of car, have a house on the lake, or a member in the Club...and none of us boys kept a little tootsie on the side, in a bungalow 4 miles from the studio, but Bill did. We knew. It wasn't the best kept, nor the worst sort of secret out there, and remember, it was his studio that employed us and half the town so who were we to cast stones at the mistress’s windows, or look down our noses at her talents?

She was a working girl and DID serve a stint as an ‘office temp’ but as short as that employ was, she was now his ‘bedroom steady’ on a regular schedule and payroll.

As Bill attended to his distractions, his attention, grew lacking, back at the lot. The work had grown mundane and tired..bored for his attention...and 'characters' became mere characterizations of themselves, with no personalities, no quirks, no surprises...bad jokes...
Hell, we all got tired… formulized… fat... and lazy…the work included.

That’s when Bill, in the midst of his excesses, took ill.  

He’d grown bored with it all - lost interest in his business, his wife, his children, even the mistress...in other words, the "all inclusive" of his Life. Found himself, aimless and stumbling under the load, and just decided to unburden himself.

He wandered. Restless. 

His first taste of Mexican sausage coinciding with a recent heat for Latin women, up in the neighborhoods, discovered in a small dark barrio bar. ‘Tamales’ he called them, and this was back then when you didn't mix...not in that section. But he devoured both like chips & guacamole. Never had Tequila or a burrito before, until the 'combo plato' colluded that fateful night with a bacterial infection - "salmon-something" - that sent him to the Emergency. 

I mean, we almost lost him right there...the coma came and went for weeks, and we worried about our jobs by that point. He'd have ‘the sweats’ and would mumble, babble in a heated argument, express an occasional gasp of excitement, or a bout of raucous laughter, as if he were sitting in the screening room of hallucination, as projected on the cranial wall.

That was ‘the miracle that was’ - born of the malaise from whence the iconic “Chizo, the Mad Squirrel” became the star of the New Empire and made us all a bunch of dough.

Yessir, ...bad sausage, and hot tamales.

And he never went back to the stew.

V

SPLINTERS AND VOIDS

In the morning they realized 

that the expectations

upon them

had been beyond grandiose 

beyond reasonable, 

beyond attainable, 

beyond reality. 

It had been thrust upon them, 

trusted to them 

for no good reason 

other than 

they were next 

and something

was expected. 

No one knew what, 

but something...

someone, 

comes next. 

Next to what?

Next to who? 

No one knew. 

Unfair to be judged so harshly, 

yet so forged in their likeness 

so driven to succeed 

beyond reasonability, 

the burden 

their curse,

murdered 

by the father 

trust slaughtered,

they were doomed. 

Fair is not an equation. 

Fear is.

Like the crystal vase 

smashed by the mother in law.

Graceful, Fragile, Elegant 

...and gone.

Not to be judged 

less each splinter, 

every shard, 

be examined 

for weakness 

or flaw ... 

Or was The Whole

the illusion?

The shards reflecting 

the delusion of their 

Splintered reality? 

The truth 

is in the voids, 

eternally avoided. 

No matter there.

V

END OF THE RAILROAD

My mother was an engineer for  the railroads...not the locomotive engineer, mind you, but a  structural, practical and versatile engineer. She would design tricky trestles along sheer drops, or tunnels through thin shale, or dense granite...it was unheard of in her time. In fact, she often, in order to avoid the aggravation, would use the male derivative of her name EMILY, and went by EMILE instead. In correspondence it worked regularly, and without question and since her job called for extensive travel, she avoided facing the opposition and inquisition. On one occasion when she ( he) was invited to a social engagement of the most influential rail and political folk, she came as ‘his wife’ with regrets out of respect, since he had just that day fallen ill, and too late to send notice. She charmed them and they sent her off with their best wishes for his speedy recovery. "Such a good man..."

She could have had her way with, or her choice of, many a gentrified gent, but she chose my dad instead. He laid track ... little more than an endured laborer. She bore no prejudice to any man or woman that held their own. She counted among her friends those that spoke only Chinese, and learned the language in their camps. Pop would sit at those same fires, sharing those simple meals, and here came she, down from her railroad car, on that executive train, to sit in the dirt and share. She would often bring down food from the galley car, good food, about to be thrown away, but not if she could help it. And so, one night they came to smile at each other across an open fire, and sparks flew. If Mom was a rail, then dad was a tie, and mom must have liked them rough hewn, because they didn't come much rougher than the old man.

It wasn't meant to last. Neither of them were about to relinquish their lives to the other, too proud, too stubborn, too driven...but driven in opposite directions. And since mother’s life had some meaning, and dad was just happy to meander...we went with mom. Where else?

Mother eventually came to find the best of both worlds in a man named Patterson, who we called 'Pat'...a simple, bigheaded ‘panner’ from Eureka who struck a huge load, and became a homely, lonely, high-roller in ' Frisco, back in its heyday.

We remember Pat as a good and trusting man. He raised us and paid for us through college and more, even though Mother left him years before.

Mother is the one that couldn't be trusted. Always another bridge to build, man to bed, or tunnel to bore.  We were her boys ,what were we to do? We tagged along...even a stint in Peru. It was a sad parade of clowns, she entertained and dragged us through.  So it should come as no surprise that when we were of age we quickly got away - first Jimmy to the Dakotas, and me, the other way. I went island-hopping for many year, before finally landing in Oahu. Jim joined me for his last twelve, and now he sits there upon my shelf, right next to mom. They wait for me, and when I die, we three shall be mixed, and stirred, and tossed to the sea, where something tells me, we'll reunite with the old man eventually.

V 

I DON'T SUCK YELLOW rev.

Ew! What are you doing?!

I’m giving you a straw. I thought it might be better than a plain glass of water. Somewhat decorative. I have no tiki fruit spears or umbrellas…and presentation being everything, I thought….make some kind of impression, other than a schmo offering you tap water in a fuck'n-faded-beer glass…but, I could…

Stop! Jeezzuss. #@*&^#@ ... I appreciate the straw…and all…the thought, and consideration that went behind it…before it…whichever went…where...

Great. So what’s wrong? Mint? Lime?

Don’t be an asshole.

Oh? So…?

It’s yellow.

­­

Yellow - is a problem?

Have you ever heard of the term: "Chromo-phobia...?"

I sense the meaning...but, please, this is your call. Elucidate. 

I can’t suck on a yellow straw.

(silence)

                                
         (longer silence)

Do you want to do the ‘close-your-eyes’ test?

You mean, ‘guess the yellow?”

Yes.

Fuck, no! That means something yellow just slipped though my lips.

Fine. But, It’s the same fucking plastic that went into the hot pink, and color is just light so let it go. Close your eyes. Block the light and suck.

No way. Not sucking yellow…especially in the dark. ..and you are NOT the first guy to try that...

These are not ‘glowing magic fairy wands’, so how would you know?

Stop. If you had "a glowing magic fairy wand" I would know it. So, Fuck you.

Okay. You're right. I'm just not sure why...and you say 'fuck-a-lot', so..???

There’s a terror factor, okay? Leave it at that or I start to creep you out very quickly

What?

Sorry I meant, ‘freak you out’, but they both apply. So shut the fuck up, and enough about 'yellow straws'.

Ok. Good.

Now, what’s for dinner? Smells great.

Well, it’s a theme…but not necessarily. We’re having spaghetti squash with a butternut-puntanesca, habanero-mango chutney, a grilled thai yellow-curry yellowtail…on a bed of saffron rice… ‘the triple yellow’, we call it. “They call me triple yellow…”

Are you fucking with me?

Do you know the price of yellowtail?

Was it substantial?

ss…standardized

…sustainable?

I couldn’t tell you, whatever that question just was…

Mercury content! Let me check my…app…okay? What ocean?

Have no idea.

Supplier? Outlet?

Let's just say "a finer restaurant in this fair city"...

Direct or indirect?

Definitely indirect.

Lawful or unlawful?

Substantially unlawful.

Decent or indecent?

Definitely indecent.

Agreed.

Agreed?

Agreed.

Really?

Really. Your bed? What color are the sheets?

You don’t want to know.

Willing to find out.

Willing to throw them out the window.

And off they went.

Postscript:

Harold was just preparing himself for the long drive out of the city, back out to the 'burbs, and had initiated a dialogue with his 'onboard genie' -  

"Suni...! ?"

"Hello, Harold." 'she' responded. 

Secretly he craved their drives together, her voice - casual, intimate, almost sensual....so reassuring....and she seldom failed (except for the 'one-time', but they fixed that with the factory re-call...). 
He would often chat her up, asking inane questions like "What's the best pizza in Schenectady?" even though it was seven hundred miles away.
 ...or, he'd tease her and make sexually suggestive requests...to fill the boredom, but, much like home... "Oh, Harold, you know I can't do that."

 "Okay. Pick up messages, Suni..."

In that moment his eyes may have strayed, because his next line was: "WHAT THE FU...!!!"  (SFX)

It appears at this juncture Harold had experienced a blinding 'yellow-out' like none before, which, color aside, and the bedsheet clinging to his windshield, obliterating his view, caused him to panic and collide with several of the parked, and otherwise, vehicles along the way, hither and sway ...crash....bang 

"Harold!?... Harold?!..." was all Suni could say, with each collision. And with each 'collision' it became a little hotter...frantic...freaky...

... until the finale: A...newly detailed recently RE-fueled, only hours before...it definitely did not come into view...the BEEMER?!...like some Germanic Opera, the Silver Bitch - BLEW!

Such a 'Big-time boom', so sudden, so massive... Suni had no chance to say Adieu .

"Oh, shit," they said in unison, upon hearing the massive 'repercussion' of their passion from the street below, so rudely interrupting their probing penetrations, as the blast blew out the windows about them. 

"I told you about  yellow...!" she screamed.

" 'Oh shit'...very deep," thought he.

V