Category: Uncategorized

Poodie James

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excerpt

in Washington, D.C. pushed President Roosevelt for the appropriations
that got the dam started. Everyone who grew apples
knew that Winifred Stone and The Daily Dispatch pushed the
senators.
The barrel of his chest straining the buttons of his faded Hawaiian
shirt, his frayed khaki shorts held up by an Army surplus webbed
belt, Poodie made his rounds, adding bottles and old newspapers
to the stock in his wagon. He was trying to think of a way to make
the mayor like him. Most people were friendly. Some ignored him
or looked away embarrassed, worried that he would approach and
ask for something, but Pete Torgerson yelled at him. Nearly everyone
knew about his deafness, knew he lived in a shack down by the
river. A few encouraged him to pick up bottles and papers from
back porches or corners of sheds. Poodie moved along, his wagon
following like a dog on a leash. The mailmen and garbage collectors
knew the town no better than he did. He pulled his wagon the
length and breadth of the town, making side trips into alleys,
retrieving bundles of papers, rummaging through garbage cans for
bottles. When the wagon was full to the top of its stakes, he hauled
it below the tracks to a rusting tin shed in a field between a foundry
and a freight warehouse. He watched a dusty old man box the bottles,
weigh the papers on his iron scale and count out a handful of
change from the coin purse he extracted from the pocket of his
leather apron.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Orange

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Past
Looking back
I wonder why
everything I left without
any effort to change them
remained as beautiful
as nature had crafted them.
Who was I, after all
who once wished to shift
the balance of the universe
by changing the depth
of the beautiful cove
of a woman’s body
and the length of a man’s penis
without the Grand Master’s plan?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763750

Savages and Beasts

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excerpt

The night before he asked the old man to give him
a ride home but he had said he would stay put and spent the night
there. There wasn’t anything he had to do at his apartment, he
was just fine to spend his night there. And there was where Anton
found him; numb, exhausted, hardly breathing. Anton knelt
close to the old man.
“What is it?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Want me to do something?” Anton asked while he went
to the sink and got some water. He gave it to the Irish man who
took a sip.
“This is the second time you have such an incident in two
weeks,” Anton said, “we better get you to the hospital let the
doctors look at you.”
Dylan didn’t say anything. Anton left him and ran upstairs
to the Father Nicolas’ office. This early in the morning, no one
had gone to their offices yet; he ran upstairs to their sleeping
quarters. He knocked at Father Nicolas’ door. Father Nicolas
opened; he saw the panic in Anton’s face; he was informed of
Dylan’s health issue; he assured Anton to look for Father Jerome
and the nurses and advised him to go attend to Dylan which
Anton agreed and ran downstairs as fast he could. The old man
wasn’t any better. Anton sat next to him and tried to calm him
down.
“These smokes of yours; two weeks ago you promised
to slow down, remember? The cigarettes kill people, everyone
knows that,” Anton underscored,
Dylan didn’t say a word. He just stirred his body around
when at that moment Father Jerome, Father Nicolas, Sister
Gladys, Mary and Sister Anna came in. Father Jerome looked at
Dylan carefully as if examining him, a short examination …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

Arrows

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Excerpt

Later that night she moved to Gregorio’s side, like a dog seeking
warmth on a cold night.
Benjamin raised himself on one elbow and tapped me on the
shoulder.
“A man is fire, a woman, pitch; comes the devil and blows!” he
said, winking at me. He lay down again with the satisfaction of one
who has delivered an important piece of information, and within
moments, he was snoring away peacefully.
I could hear Gregorio and Josefa conversing in whispers, and the
nagging worry about his possible secret religion made me vow to find
her a chaperone the very next day, lest things between them should
go too fast. She had no one to look after her reputation but me.

Indians say vultures take messages to God. Not for the last time, I
wondered whether they took souls, too.
On the day we faced Guacaipuro’s hosts conspicuously waiting
for us, several vultures circled high overhead, barely visible through
the thin fog dissipating rapidly in the first rays of sun. Having seen
them eating carrion, I was disinclined to hold them in high
regard—their presence was ominous.
We stood overlooking a valley and a river named San Pedro. We
were high in the mountains, and the air was pleasantly cool, like an
early spring dawn in Andalusia.
“May God be with you. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.”
The men rose, for they had knelt to receive my blessing. No
chanting this time. Gregorio and Benjamin stood closest to me.
Josefa watched from a few paces behind, her face sallow. Gregorio
went to her and took her hands. She broke her silence with violent
sobs, and Gregorio lent her his shoulder and his worn handkerchief.
I realized how little I knew about women. She cuddled against
him as she had done with me after she had killed that young Indian.
Gregorio took her demeanor as a token of her regard for him.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Medusa

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Flame
Moth plays
with the flame of the candle
his fingers touch
her fiery skin
game of entering
and exiting begins
body heat-trapping
The unsuspected visitors
as the enamoured moth
dances with the flame
And he feathery blows
onto her feminine lips
captivating moments
The light breeze enters
to erase the mark that his tongue
left onto her clit

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763769

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

With the Group of Seven paintings as
a template, he taught himself to paint again, working only on southern
landscapes. He took several to the owner of The Golden Key Gallery who
placed one in the window and sold it within two days. More sold during
the next few months, but then the gallery owner sold his business and
Ken was once again without an outlet.
Still, he persisted and one day, while sketching the bent shapes of driftwood,
in the dunes near the airport, it occurred to him that he could make
a profit from the abundance of wood on the beach. He purchased a pickup
truck and two chain saws, cut up the wood, wrapped velvet ribbons
around the most attractive pieces, and attached a card with his telephone
number. He left the wood on the front steps of the city’s grand homes
and within days, the orders came in. While he delivered and stacked the
firewood, he told the homeowners his stories of the Arctic, and when
they asked about his paintings, he would display the canvases he carried
in the cab of his truck. The Arctic paintings didn’t sell but the southern
landscapes were a hit.
He taught himself to become a storyteller, rehearsing every anecdote
he had, practising his tone, volume, order of words and, most importantly,
his choice of words. Where was the power of the story?
His clients listened, but showed little interest, so he made a list of every
service club in the city. Would they like a guest speaker at their next
meeting? Yes, they would like to hear about the Arctic, and so, Ken did
the rounds. Each audience contained a handful of people who showed
mild interest – the rest were bored, and often antagonistic. Sometimes
he was heckled, and a red tide of anger would creep up from his chest to
flush his neck and cheeks. Once someone shouted that he, and the rest of
the people there, resented an immigrant telling Canadians how to live in
their country and run their lives.
“That is hardly what I am doing,” Ken retorted. “I intend no disrespect.
I am simply here bringing information from a faraway place.”
His words dropped like ragged bits of paper to lie discarded on the
floor. Perhaps his stories were so outside the experience of most Canadians
that they seemed like tall tales – unlikely and unbelievable. There had
to be a better way to tell people about the Arctic but what was it?
His father told him that he was involving himself in matters that were
none of his business. He was not a citizen of Canada and until he was,
he should keep his opinions to himself. He responded that he was only
doing what he had learned at his father’s knee, in Portugal. He reminded
his father that Ken Sr. had not been a citizen of Portugal and yet he had
become deeply involved in the affairs of that country and had worked
hard to help the people. The Inuit were human beings in great distress, he
said, and he was trying to help.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

He Rode Tall

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Excerpt

“Good morning,” Tanya chirped as Joel turned in his
sleeping bag. She was standing on the ground beside
the truck, her sleeping bag unused.
“Morning,” grumbled Joel.
“I took care of the chores already,” she said. “The horses are
fed and the stalls are cleaned. Are you ready for a cup of coffee?”
“Sure. Just give me a couple of minutes to get into my jeans,”
Joel replied. Tanya ducked around the corner of the truck and
Joel scrambled into his Wranglers.
Once Joel and Tanya had found their way to the canteen and
were sitting at a table sipping on their morning java, Joel couldn’t
help himself and had to ask, “So where did you end up last
night?” He hated himself for asking, like he was her father, but
like a run-away horse he just couldn’t hold himself back.
“We got back around eleven and I went by the trailer to let you
know that I was going to stay with the girls, they were good
enough to invite me to bunk down in their trailer. You were
already sound asleep and it didn’t make sense to wake you. I have
to tell you, it really wasn’t too hard of a decision—a hay mattress
in the back of a truck or a real mattress and running water,
including a shower, in a travel trailer. Sorry Joel, the girls won
that one hands down.”
“I guess it isn’t any of my business. I shouldn’t have even
asked. Sorry about that.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Vespers

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Searching
Have you seen my nest
in barn’s upper beam
just behind the middle post
hid well from predators
youthful eyes wondering
in an abandoned building
this post an observatory
for owl and clever
wind that dances
grasses and her mind as
she hunts for her young chicks
begging on the beam for evening’s
meal as the surprise of
elements endures patient
meditation on a lower post

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763033

Tasos Livaditis – Selected Poems

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Each morning they take a count of us;
each evening we count the leftover plates
the leftover grief in our eyes
as the rain casts the dice with the policemen
night falls and the whistles start echoing.
Now we want to put our hands in our armpits
to look whether a star gleams in the sky,
to remember that face
against the opening of the door
but we can’t remember
we have no time to remember
we don’t have time but to stand tall
and die.
My beloved
I perhaps feel cold when it rains
I perhaps caress the crumbs of memory
in my pockets
my palms that once held you are still hot
but I can’t return.
How can I deny the piece of hardened bread that twenty of us
shared?
How can I deny my mother who expects from me
a cup of sage tea?
How can I deny our child who we promised a wedge
of the sky?
How can I deny Nikolas
who was singing while they aimed to execute him?
When I return we won’t have a lamp to light, we won’t
know where to place our dream.
We shall remain silent.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087367R7C

Poodie James

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Excerpt

“Those people didn’t buy a car, did they Irv?”
“They said they’d be back tomorrow, Mr. Torgerson.”
“They won’t be back, Irv. They’ll go down the street to Pearson’s
and buy a Mercury, maybe even a Lincoln, because you didn’t
cinch that deal, Irv. You’ve got to cinch those deals, Irv.”
“I do my best.”
“Your best is going to have to get better, Irv. You call those people
tonight and you get ’em back in here tomorrow. You tell ’em
you’ll make a deal they’ll like, Irv. I want to see ’em sitting at that
table signing things.”
“They’re from up the river.”
“You find ’em. You get ’em in here again. You sell ’em a
Packard.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Torgerson.”
“I know you will, Irv.”
The salesman turned back into the show room. Torgerson’s
voice tracked him.
“Irv, I just know you will.”
Maybe it was because times were good, Torgerson thought, or
maybe it was because the mayor job brought him attention, but
Packard sales were up almost 20 percent over two years ago. A
third of the way through his first term, he was mapping out his
next campaign. Only I’ll really run, he thought. Last time was a
fluke, I know that. Ken Spear, he’s the one who could take it away,
but I don’t think he realizes it. Somebody will tell him. You can
count on that, because a lot of people would like me out. I piss off
too many of them. But, that’s what happens when you make waves
in a little town.
Torgerson looked up from his musing. Poodie James was passing
in front of the window. Torgerson moved through the show
room and out onto the sidewalk just as Poodie stopped his wagon
and reached into the used car lot for a Coke bottle standing in front
of a ’41 Ford Roadster. Torgerson charged over and stepped in
front of him.
“Get out of my lot,” he yelled. “Go on, get out of here. Go on.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV