Friday, July 26, 2013

unforgiven prose, part 2

unforgiven prose, part 1

The Harley lit up the countryside. He scribbled in his black moldy note book two lines by the headlight: 'I hadn't even the sweaty shirt on my back. I need a new pencil'. He left out all the torturous stuff - How she was crying in laughter by the willow tree; his jeans sinking in the pond, wallet weighted with seven credit cards and a photo of his wife. She thought it funny, he took it seriously, but that made it funnier to her. So he jumped up and down on her flowery print dress, then ripped it like an old t-shirt, methodically tearing an adorable rectangular handkerchief gift selection that you can make in your very own home. She pushed back her hair and laughed silently. He just walked away. He still had a pencil and his bike left. No one was suppose to find out, but there was the car driving by slow, and the 911 transcript was released into the public record since he was the author of fifteen books and showed up a lot on afternoon talk shows in a suit and bow tie, theorizing softly with a raised eyebrow:

911: What's your emergency?

Woman: There's this man. And I'm in my car.

911: What's your trouble, ma'am?

Woman: There's a naked man standing out on Willow Road.

911: What's the problem?

Woman: For the last two hours he's been out here by a motorcycle watching the moon.

911: Two hours?

Woman: He's just standing there. Naked. Wait...I'm turning around again. I'll try to get closer.

art: Man and the Moon
--Andrew Wyeth

Saturday, July 20, 2013

unforgiven prose

He panted ashore on the bank in the crook of the river where willows sway. He was shivering. 'I need my sweater', he thought, 'that crazy lady' at the Haunted Manor tearing the cardigan in double fistful and running it up her flagpole. Her mischievous laughing echoed in the purple distance.

He'd sent her the lone copy of the double-spaced manuscript, and she said she buried the mangy, disgusting manifesto, seeding it with hot embers. "It's a children's story for crying out loud", he cried out loud to his own ears. He heard more taunting laughs.

Her vision must've been so blurred with spotty type. The life of an at-home-do-it-yourself editor. She'd taken an oversize flour sack full of unloved prose and a shovel, rowed across the way and dug a grave. A printer's grave. Covered it with dead brush and set it ablaze.

He found the resting place, everything ruined and undistinguished, the air smelling of burnt oil from a 1913 Harley. The fire felt good as he shuddered, his soaking trousers cinching up his manhood tight enough to make a grown man cry. A dog barked in the distance. He turned, and through the trees he saw Willow Manor was dark now. No more laughing. He wanted his sweater.

photo by Agustin Berrocal

Friday, July 19, 2013

summer lullaby haiku

One last splash-less dive
Summer lullaby long days
Synchronized heartbeats

Five steps North, seven bread crumbs West, then five swift paces Southwest leads you to 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of
Haiku My Heart

photo: Flying Over Barcelona
by Pilar Silvestre

Saturday, July 13, 2013

seven years blog itch

Just a quiet evening celebrating seven years of a vagabond's sketchbook admiring a vision in front of the noisy window air.
Thanks, Dear Reader.

Monday, July 8, 2013

fat chance

Dedicated to those Everyman Comics of yesteryear, Mr. Bob Elliott and Mr. Ray Goulding...

announcer: Wally Ballou has a guest you may be interested in now. Come in, Wally Ballou!

WB: ...lou, winner the past seventeen years of the golden diction award for talking good on the radio, Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish you could see this, I'm standing next to Professor Groggins as we survey the scene before us of monster machinery for the good professor's latest attempted adventure into space, Professor, if I may have you talk into my microphone here....

PG: Yes.

WB: Do I understand what's going on before us, Professor Groggins, that is, what you are doing to the Statue Of Liberty?

PG: Yes. Uh, I am retrofitting Lady Liberty, as you can see by the cranes, donning powerful rockets at key points around her gown, which will allow her to liftoff...

WB: Wait a minute, Professor, are don't mean...

PG: You're rolling your eyes.

WB: No.

PG: I just saw you. Towards your engineer. You want a fat lip, fella?

WB. No, really I wasn't. But Professor, you don't expect to...I mean how?...and to the moon?...

PG: How? Simple. With rocket power from the use of old lawnmower engines attached with rivets to her gown.

WB: But that isn't a real gown now is it, Professor...

PG: I know that. It was a figure of speech. Now there you go again with the eyes. I'm warning you.

WB: Those goggles. You're not wearing those are you?

PG: Why not? I expect debris to fly by as I lean over the porch of her torch.

WB: Those old goggles. [giggling] Where did they come from?

PG: From a nice dowager in Ohio. She's funding the project. [sound of giggling in background] And there you go again...

[sound of scuffling, a punch and loud grunt. Dead air.]

announcer: Well, now, that certainly was interesting.

photo credit: Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP


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