Friday, August 30, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
He lost control of the Jag at the solitary stretch of the highway where passing was legal. Not a cloud in the sky, white-lined pavement's pores were parched, but he had caught a glimpse where she had her second button unfastened. Deep beyond the white blouse and name tag he spotted flesh in a flash and it was over in that moment as he was mentally listing the possibilities.
He had made another pass a half hour earlier. In the roadside diner all he had to do was nod his head to the left to set her gaze over his left shoulder. Parked out front it shone, a beautiful silver, '57 Jaguar XKSS convertible. That's all it took, she quit her job athazagoraphobia free, and she was pushing wild hair out of her face at ninety mph on cue.
It was the completion of a one-eighty where they stopped, looking back into the sunset in the blinding dust storm, hands-free off the jerking wheel not to rip fingers from their sockets, spinning to a stop. He said, 'whew' in quiet confidence like Steve McQueen, and when he looked at his passenger she was laughing. She let him unfasten button number three. It tore loose, he pushed the orange button into his front pocket, telling her it was the Chinese coin missing from his prized collection. She tore off the other two coins and handed them over in dumbfounded awe.
photo by Steven Kelly
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
photo by Elena Kalis
Corkscrewing in rhythmic waltz time
Or goggle-mach speed spearing white clouds
In lofty and gracious Amelia flight
Take the flip-coin chances of dank miners
Or saltatory fish gasping for air
Abandon safe poet chairs behind closed curtains
Swim offshore amongst the lithesome whale
Listen closely, gather their forsaken tales
Stroking away your own scorned love
Sunday, August 11, 2013
song and dance
She danced without music in the hall with low ceilings. You'd bump your head if you were tall, then slump to your wooden chair temporarily stunned and blinded. You'd get dirty looks if you interrupted and scooted your chair. People would shush hush, give you an evil eye, and make a mental note for a sound beating outside as you walked in the dark if you scooted. Especially when she danced. And without music. Crowds would clap and if you caught her on an elixir night she'd flash a bony leg aimed towards the low ceiling in-between claps. The men all cheered. Except this one fellow in the same corner - always hidden behind a stiff canvas, drawing and drawing, bursts of cursing, his head far from the low ceiling.
The footlights shone a white glow coming up from the stage as though hidden in her skirt, but you could tell the reflection was from misty candles hidden behind those huge porcelain clams. They were brittle, and if you busted one with your mug it was a week's pay to replace. The effervescent candles could not vaporize the stench from petrified drink spilled over the century forming shellacked patches on the wood floor. Near closing time you'd rise to leave, but you'd bump your head, fall exasperated and light another cigarette, staying until you got bounced.
All in all, a fun evening. Oh, before I forget, one time I asked a group of men huddled in the cold about the fellow stapled in the corner. That man painted by the name Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Friday, August 9, 2013
oh, nature haiku
Slight tree chime dusting
Crickets tickling eardrum
Forest's tremble heart
Five steps North, seven bread crumbs West, then five swift paces Southwest leads you to 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of
Haiku My Heart
by Tyler Forest-Hauser
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Salvador observed in direct sunlight an impatient man at the next table blow off the waiter with a solitaire backhand wave. On the next clean white canvas of the sketchbook he furiously drew in black a mans giant head with matted hair being swept out to sea riding a wave on the back of a hand. He flipped the sketch and shut his eyes to a blank page, but Dalí's eyes were forever open. It would've been torture to another man.
His companion, a hungry artist twice as young, sketched a man in solitude lunching at a cobblestone outdoor diner. He payed attention to detail with the patterned cobblestone and the pronounced pristine crease in the diner's pants. When he was finished drawing he signed a name nobody knew at the bottom in handwriting no one could decipher, then nudged the man with closed eyelids.
"That is splendid, señor"! Salvador lied. "You captured his chins"! That part he truly loved. He would file those trailing chins away and use them in his next sculpture. In a flash, he gathered up his camera from the black case under his chair and snapped one shot of a large woman's shadow strolling slowly across the way carrying a basket in her right hand. Her broad shadow gave him ideas for his next creation, and he wondered if the hand-basket she carried might be full of Hell.
"May I see yours, señor"?
Dalí feigned horror. "No"! He leaned in his chair, camera on his lap and pretended to look away in thought. The young artist rose quietly, slipped on his jacket, fetched his pad and pencils. "I bid you farewell, mi amigo", he laughed, chuckling at this familiar song and dance. Salvador watched his friend walk away until he was out of sight. He called the young man's name under his breath and softly begged for his return.
Dalí opened his eyelids in an unknown time, leaving his possessions behind to search for new shadows.
by M. C. Escher
Thursday, August 1, 2013
seven second delay parade
"I certainly have never seen an animal like that last floater, Chuck".
"You got me, Bob. No telling what that protruding swirly-gig was sticking out of its rear. Well, it's passed now"...
.."In more ways than one".
"Looks like a small car, Chuck".
"Well, that's obvious, Bob".
"There's no need for sarcasm. What do you have in your coffee mug?"
[sound of throat clearing]
"Well..I don't know..could be it represents American Ingenuity, Chuck".
"Why...that's an Olga, Bob. A compact car from another land".
"Oh, really?" [thick molasses sarcasm]
"Yeah. Austria or Russia. Number one importers of paper mache".
"Hell, I don't know".
[silence. children screaming sheer delight in distance. tired brass band trailing off.]
"I think I can just reach it with this pea shooter".
"Go for it".
[sound of a spit, and then another more pronounced dart toss by expert marksman]
"You got the red balloon, Chuck! Good shot"!
"Two more - maybe three - and she's down".
[sounds of furious darts, followed by violent crashing and twisting metal in slow motion]
"That sure wasn't paper mache".
"Yee Haw! American Ingenuity"!