Last Rites Of Brunch
Brunch long since over, third and fourth cups had been drained. Our lively fellowship of french toast and cajun omelets, is now reduced to a gruel of generic drivel. Every platter, fork and glass has made its’ clattering exit and now enjoy sudsy rebirth. One final fallen player remains. Wrapped within Goblin magic spells of invisibility which deceive all but me is the check. To my companions eyes it appears as road-kill squirrel.
The unrecognizable front half is smeared in a ring of condensation that emulates spent body fluids. The nether end flutters like a tail, buffeted in the wake of passing waiters.
“We must now most reverently honor the dead!” I finally proclaim. And gently place the corpse in one hand and my Visa Card in the other. A poor cortege we three from, marching with sorrowful single step cadence to my quietly hummed requiem. Duties discharged at the register, I exit, as the busboy serves up a hearty “have a nice day!”, without a crumb of sincerity.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Death By Shovel
At lowest tide I visit our town beach. A purposefully unfashionable time after all the poets searching for god have finished walking their dogs. Scrup-fwop, scrup-fwop, can be heard beyond the jetty. I see two lifeguards young and tall, their sun-blond hair in matched French braids. With long handled steel shovels from Parks and Rec they scoop up jellyfish and casually lob them up to a hot dry death upon the rocks. The oversized orange windbreakers our teen guardians wore urgently proclaiming “RESCUE”. Mercifully, jellyfish can’t read.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Plan B
Since Dad was in the Air Force our family often moved when we were growing up. Even after they divorced Mom kept moving us. It just became a pattern I guess, and seemed natural. Finally after we ran out of child support and alimony Mom needed “Plan B”. Santa Fe seemed like a good choice for the three of us. I already painted a mental picture of myself in Art School, my sister planned to rope and brand a cowboy boyfriend for her very own, and poor Mom just wanted a life. A small restaurant with an apartment upstairs over in the Rail Road district was for rent and we got to work. The three of us were excited and all pitched in. Mom is a great cook (she make left-overs exciting even on the third or fourth time around) and got guys from other restaurants to moonlight in the kitchen on their days off. My sister would wait tables and turn her charm up to eleven. All I was much good for was bus tables, mop the floor, and do whatever art work was needed on menus, signs, and such.
We all wanted a south western name for the place. A woman’s name, something with appeal that felt intimate and friendly. Arguing back and forth over “Cowgirl this” and “Coyote that” got us no place. It was my sisters idea to hang around the Central Plaza and ask some of the old-time cowboys for advice. “Fine,” said Mom, “you decide, I don’t care, just hurry up, and tell your brother so he can do the signs and print some flyers”. Sis did go talk to those old boys who sat and smoked in the shade by the bandstand. She asked them, “what is your most cherished memory? The best, most wonderful thing you have ever known? Something that will always, always makes you smile no-matter what.” They were a little shy at first, but finally agreed unanimously. When I heard it, I just couldn’t help but go way-way over the top with the artwork (I thought Mom would be mad).
The restaurant has really worked out ok. Yup, “Rodeo Whore” is quite the little success story, and man do we sell a lot of t-shirts online!
by - Doug Mathewson
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Safe Harbor
In Under Milk Wood Old Captain Cat in his delirium calls out, “Let me shipwreck in your thighs”.
For me, at age fifteen, it carried such a sensual weight and power.
As a grown man it struck me as both selfish and arrogant.
These days I find it speaks of redemption and a loving forgiveness.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Computer Safety
Humming softly in the darkness, beneath an “ early-curb-alert-found-object desk”, my computer resides in a plastic bucket.
That’s how I like it, and let me tell you why.
The cooling fan no longer devours the dust tigers who arrogantly roam my floor.
No building maintenance mop-slopping reeking bleachy cleansers into serial ports for me!
Office mascot Brutus shall not Bulldog wizz through cracks surrounding disc-drive doors ever again.
And should Emperor Fudd’s tax man come a-knocking, I’ll just grab my PC bucket by the handle and run like hell.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Poor Snuffie
We needed warmer costuming for our travels to the north. The money was already spent on on plane tickets, art supplies, and snacks. A gift from above! 50% off coupons from “Bargain Barn” came just in time! Always fashion forward, we choose the blackest of ultra-soft vests. At check out time my wife says “these things are so soft, I bet they’re made out of muppett fur!” Eyebrow piercings scrunched together as our clerk slowly read the label, ‘no mam, says here it’s all acrylic”.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Ekphrastic Riff
“People are such shit!” my sister screamed as she overarmed her phone against the wall.
“There’s just so much of the good stuff to go around, you know” said her boyfriend the Archangel Gabriel, voice muffled by his wings as, lantern raised, he peered into the fridge. She bitterly resented being lectured, by immortals most of all, and I hated it when he and she fought.
“He only created so much soul back then, omnipotent or otherwise, no one could have anticipated the demand” said Gabe (as we called him around the house). With fierce hand gestures and a scalding voice my sister went on and on about whatever.
All I could hear was Laurie Anderson singing:
“oh Daddy Daddy, it was just like you said
now [that] the living out number the dead”.
by-Doug Mathewson
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Regretless Regifting
My uncle Robby is so totally crazy, I mean completely certifiably insane.
Boundaries between worlds mean nothing to him, daily he travels the multiverse with ease. Lately he has been spending time in an ephemeral world of transparent beings.
So in the park he says to me,
“If I had a dollar for every asshole on the street who wants to sell me a Moulin-Rouge
coaster set, I could buy……. well an holographic fishing boat! Boy-oh-boy I’d sure
make a name for myself then!”
I can look around the house for a boat warming gift. It’s just too bad it can’t be a set of those goddam coasters (why do I keep buying things from Gypsies?). What would be nice is I could give him that enchanted road-and-reel I bought on ebay.alt-realms back when I wanted to catch an phantom imperceptible fish to impress that stupid invisible girl who never really loved me anyway. It’s around here, ……. well somewhere.
by - Doug Mathewson
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Keyboard Call
National poetry month was a real eye-opener. Poets great and small threw wide their doors and invited us in. I had the opportunity to hear many people with whom I was not familiar read their work. Two that stand out are Yvonne Murphy with her insightful, scholarly examination of language and Laurelyn Whitt who writes of languages lost in her exploration of interstitial space. I also enjoyed the works of several
other people, but did not catch their names. An older man recalled the wildflowers that were his childhood companions, and a chance meeting in the town library with a young reader who explained whales. Another poet wrote passionately about the loss of a loved one, stolen from him by AIDs.
Among the anti-war poems was written by a Korean Veteran. The horror as fresh today was it was in 1953. The memories still so vivid he could only to sing his poem in faltering monotone to keep his tears at bay. I was impressed by these fine writers and by the community they share. I only wish those of us who write prose could have such a community as well. There seem to be any number of ongoing “slams” and “open mic poetry” events to be found. Theirs is not on-line social-network, just real people reading aloud to each other on a regular basis. In part it is envy I feel. That and impatience with my self for gaining three pounds over the month (dam you with your home-made cookies and imported cheeses). There were eighty seven listings of upcoming events for this month on the state wide poetry calender when I checked. “Google-stalk” as I might, I could not find one prose reading.
I offer a call to action to writers of prose, flash fiction authors especially, since our work lends itself so well to being read aloud, to promote a local reading series. Use any means available to get out the word. Flash Mob Flash Fiction? Ask your local book store or cafe which evening of the week is totally dead and If you were to bring in at least five friends who might, just might buy something could you have ninety minutes for a monthly short fiction extravaganza? Make it a contest, tell people lies, include yodeling or look-alike contests if that helps. Younger crowds seem to love break-up stories, worst boyfriend/girlfriend stories. Just do not make it sound like school. For an older crowd try memories, reminiscences,- finding god while walking on the beach is always popular - (did he wash up?). Make it themed! Let’s post our posters and fly our flyers. Local direct action is what we need to do.
There are a couple of poets in my area who write pretty good short fiction, they just have the punctuation all wrong and think it is poetry. Maybe we can rope them into it as well.
Peace - Doug Mathewson
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Broke Again
When times were tough, pickings real slim, I’d invent a charity and go door-to-door soliciting funds. “Jovian Junipers”, the future of a green Jupiter is just beyond our reach.
What’s that you say, impossible… with the violent hydrogen gas oblate spheroid atmosphere surrounding the unimaginably dense radioactive liquid metal core?
That is why we need help ever so badly, you can see just how much there is to do.
Someday god willing, those trees will be tall enough to reach right up trough a thousand kilometers of ammonium sulfide clouds and all we need is a little help from you, you and others like you, who are farsighted enough share our vision!
Won’t you help?
by Doug Mathewson
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