Smith Magazine is a very cool NYC based publication and performance  group
who work exclusively in six word fiction. I have been fortunate enough to have written for them in the past about my experiences and impressions of life in New York City.
Recently they requested material on the topics of Hope and also on Despair.
Here are a couple.

Hope
“Got pie?”
“Kinda pie?”
“Hoping Rhubarb.”

Despair

“Dr. Flatline frowned, not good news.”

by-Doug Mathewson

The cats and I were up before dawn, one of us had to pee, the other three were desperately hungry.

Surrounded by a volatile ocean of meows and lashing tails we set off to the kitchen, there to seek out a can of “Tuna Surprise”

The poor Mr. Tuna must have been surprised, finding himself in a cat food can.

I saw a black unmarked tow-truck pass my house slowly at sub parade speed.

The driver had the lights off and quietly tip-toed along with a big-body newer
Lexus on the hook.

“Maybe the car needs service, or…..wait a minute!,,,,,,,, 5:00 am? No Lights?…….

It’s the Repo-Man!

Repo-Man on my street?????……………. sign of the times.

by-Doug Mathewson

I’m sorry I did not understand your poem.
Really so incredibly sorry.
You held it up to show that it was printed in a shape.
You were very excited and so was I.
I hadn’t really caught the title,
but you were so happy,  I let it go.

I’m sorry I did not understand your poem
The shape was a nut, maybe an acorn I thought.
There were winter scenes and images
of bright eyes, longing for special treats.
Then I understood it was a dreidel,
and your cousins Nathan and Sahara,
were celebrating the joy of Hanukkah!
Not two hungry  squirrels at Winter’s Solstice like I thought.

I’m sorry I did not understand your poem.
You cried then, and told me the shape was a heart.
A heart, your heart, you said
because this was a love poem, written because
you loved me, or used to think you did.
I felt horrible making you cry and for being such an oaf.
Then I was crying too, and laughing crazy.
Because I had always loved you, and never thought you’d notice.

I’m sorry I did not understand you poem,
but now I do.

Gert Grundy had about all she could take of her niece Cassidy Cheyenne and her god damn holier than thou attitude, tossing down a “Two much information” penalty flag with an extra huge box-car load of heavy mascara eye rolling.
Who the heck was she, with her chopped and cropped Motley Crue top and her low gunslinger grimy bottoms, her tramp-stamp tattoos of skeletal hands and Hells own flames climbing climbing up out of her unwashed personal situation.
Just one mention of the old days when Gert played the roadhouse circuit with her exotic dance routine “Ginger And Her Snaps”, one little mention of a twist and a tumble in the double sleeper of a purple Peterbilt with Texas tags and now Cassidy was all crapily disposed and huffy.
I like that, thought Gert, Jesus himself knows I love her, but that girl with her no-account trailer trash unemployed  friends, drinking beer and being snippy and rude after what all I done for her, alright,…. for her momma to be truthful (won’t never forget that drunk “Thelma and Louise”  summer of ours), and I made her momma a promise before she got sent away to do right by her child, and one way or t’other I will.
From the bottom of the “Farm n’ Family” sized Quaker Oaks container Gert fished out her solution and unwrapping it from the Hoppin’ Rabbit plastic bag while she sorted out the mail, opening one letter of especial particular interest and saw there was a might choice to make, which she pondered as she absentmindedly slipped bullets into her big old Smith & Wesson revolver now free of the bag.
Gert’s mind shifting back and forth between loading the gun and reading that letter, choices, choices what to do?  should she just plain shoot Cassidy Cheyenne dead right where slumped on the porch next to the spare washing machine, passed out from smoking cheap weed, or rob another highway package store and get a little money towards an expensive future, a hard hard nut to crack indeed.
Oh, the hell, do the right thing I suppose, wake the kid, tell her the news that she’s going to off to school in the fall, then later on go rob up some money towards tuition, Med School at Yale ain’t gonna come cheap!

by-Doug Mathewson

Uncle Art was the smartest man on the planet for sure. He proved it everyday just being wrong. That may sound crazy, but know what? It worked out right. Three seasons he traveled from Maine to Miami and back, working his act on seaside boardwalks. Winters he and Aunt Vera relaxed in their little trailer on Narragansett Bay. He changed his name and his costume fairly often to, as he would say “Keep the act fresh. Be relevant in today’s market.” Well, that seemed a bit much, but like I said, he was the smartest man on earth. Some times he was “Frankie Future” and wore a space suit and a turban. For “Marcello the Mysterious” a tux with his turban. He might be a time traveler, an ancient mystic swami, or a visitor for the mysterious and undefined seventh dimension. But always, always he wore his signature turban.
The act was straight forward. For three dollars (five seemed too high) he would guess anything about you. Your age, gender, race, country of origin, favorite past time – anything. And since he always “Guessed” wrong, you won. You won a prize worth  three cents or less. A stick of gum, a miniature pocket-comb, maybe an individual tissues in cellophane labeled in Korean. Net gain $2.97. That’s how it worked with the gents and the kids. They would walk away, chewing their gum, or trying out their new inch long comb, laughing about how they got the better of the “Expert Guesser.” Women, being much smarter,  were another situation.
Uncle Art was at his best with the ladies. In the face of all reality and sanity, despite incredibly contrary evidence he told every single woman the same thing. “My dear, you are thirty one years of age, weigh precisely one hundred and twelve pounds. Your family has its roots in south of France, and dare I say… you have a hint of royal blood. That might not have been exactly what you or I would have guessed, but that’s what “Swami Savior-fare” or who ever Uncle Art was at the time told ‘em. And you know what? They all agreed. “Yes” they said, “Francis O’Fourtune was right on all counts, ….. incredibly so! It was absolutely amazing”, they declared, “how anyone, anyone could be so completely, totally, one hundred percent correct.”
And  since Uncle Art was “Right”, he kept the whole three bucks. Sometimes
a particularly happy client would slip him a few extra dollars. He would bend to kiss her hand and whisper “Thank you, … your Highness.” That put a smile on a few faces.
Women got the joke, and men just didn’t. Uncle Art  might “Guess” for six or seven hundred people on a good day in the summer. He’d have given away some gum, a few factory second pocket protectors. He’d come back tired, with a smile on his face, and couple of grand in singles and fives stuffed in his pockets.
Years latter, when he and Aunt Vera finally retired to Florida, people would
ask “So Artie, tell me, what did you do before your retired?” Aunt Vera would jump in and say, “My husband was in information business.

by-Doug Mathewson

About this time of year I move our fish from their inside tank winter camp to their summer home, our outdoor pond. Frogs soon arrive just like hobos from years ago, riding the rails to easier living. They move in with bold ker-plunks and settle for the season. I never really noticed the frogs that much, they swan and sang and so what. They were frogs. I feed the fish when I leave in the morning and again at night when I return. The frogs were okay,
they just hung out, jumped in with a splash when I got too close.
Last year was different. For what ever reason the frogs looked like the Ramones!  There were their little (green) faces! Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, and Marky The resemblance was startling. I tried to explain to people that in my little pond, there were four frogs that looked like  big time New York punk legends! People were mostly polite when I told them (well, a few rolled their eyes or even snickered) but nobody was  interested enough to go take even a quick peek. All spring and summer long I marveled at them. I knew which one was which, even addressed them by name (they were such distinct individuals). Come fall the Ramones Frogs packed their little froggie guitar cases and moved on. Over the winter I though of them more than a few times. I wondered what they were up to ( could they be on tour in Japan?). I was casually curious if they or some variety decedents, musical or not, might return come spring.
Today I was up early, put out the trash, bring in the paper and I heard very odd croaks! “Great”, I thought “Maybe the frogs are back from CBGB or where-ever.” Cautious and quiet was my approach (really wanted to surprise the boys) and there, right there in my pond where these long and leggy spotted leopard frogs! They took one look at me, and in a beautifully choreographed move somersaulted into the pond, leaving three perfect rippling circles that blossomed into tiny art-deco “Man in the moon” winking faces!  – total Cirque du Soleil!!  Oh, what a summer this will be!!!

By-Doug Mathewson

Night skies seen on razors edge, a dubious godly gift.
Perfect vision astronomic distances so clear.
Sightless in close mangrove swamps,
Other focus monsoon blur.
Semaphore crabs never shunted. Information passed each day.
marauding marabou mouths -beware-click-clack-beware.
wicked waders watching -beware-click-clack-beware.
sudden beak-death near upon us -silent-cautions-click-clack-stillness now.
rest now -click-clack- rest now-unaware.
Cadet Waxwing at her station, far point long departed.
Looping orbit long ecliptic from so very far away.
panic is our news! oh-danger is for certain-click-clack-danger now we see!
falling falling they are falling! no-no
too fastly downward very wrongly!
plummet homeward much too fast
speeding orbiter now seems damaged! did you see it? looklook double quick!
object impact? hostile actions? click-clack-mayday-mayday-in the sky.
crew soon all be burning -click-clack -frail and falling from so high
sound all warning quickly! click-clack-click-clack-fast-fast alarms now please!.
Fading double image flickers off, then on, and off again
Sky brakes they are screaming!
Hull shudders long and groans
Atmospheric glancing bounce!
did you see her? Did you see her as she passed?
intent upon the helm, so quiet in the vast.
pulsed in time-time, then back out out out……..
green-screen green-screen they have saved her!
crew removed from peril click-clack-shut alarms now please,
orbit re-established click-clack-check for damage (what had happened?)..
ceramic hull cooling cool now click-clack-masks discarded breathing slow start.
Starboard porthole she is dreaming, face pressed to the glass.
She looks with longing for her crab friends far below.
Ocean is so blue today (she sing-song sings)
So blue. so blue today, sings Little Waxie.
do you feel it? click-clack
she dreams now in the sky.

by-Doug Mathewson

(click-clack)

I would like to thank Jonathan Lethem for the inspiration for this piece. I am completely in awe of his writing.  This prose poem comes from his novels “Chronic City” and “Girl in Landscape” which are very fine indeed.  Also I would like to apologize for how poorly this is formatted. Everything the crabs say is indented and in italics. Some how his is beyond the scope of WordPress.

Out the door too fast, only  just caught BBC World Service by the edge.
Presenter Catherine Campbell-Collins (her accent so crisp and clipped it hurt),
briskly dispatched the days first headlines.
“Twister leaves twelve dead in Oklahoma, more to follow.”
My somewhat inattentive and dyslexic self thought she said “Twitter.”
On the train I sadly shook my head and though, “Too bad for sure, a terrible thing.
But only a matter of time really, before that social networking  shit was gonna catch up with people.”

by-Doug Mathewson

Detective Sergeant “Palone” Ortiz bristled with a dark and quiet anger at this latest indignity, this new injustice. Juannie Rodriquez was a little crazy sure, but they had been partners working street crimes for three years with no problems up to him being placed on suspension last week for shooting an asshole who deserved it majorly.
Having a stranger, some “Detective Patrick Michael O’Shawnasea” to watch his back
on the street was not a good feeling, and the Captain was still too pissed off at Juannie,
to hear anything Palone had to say. “Why from way cross town, why him, why a guy so, so white?” muttered Palone, and with a rising voice continued “I swear if he makes one fucking taco joke, one  fucking Speedy Gonzales crack, I’ll loose it and won’t be responsible for what happens.”
Next day as the tension in their unmarked car climbing higher and higher till the new guy let out a long slow sigh, shook his head and said “Man, you know…. I could never stand to live around here like you people do, never, just couldn’t deal with it!”
As Palone considered several extremely violent options, O’Shawnasea continued
“I mean, look at these Spanish women, just look, – their eyes, how they smile, and ohmygod how they wear their jeans-  I’d never get anything done falling in love, what three times every block”, leaving Detective Sergeant Ortiz to chuckle and reply “Yeah, sure, maybe- it’s just a neighborhood thing I guess ……. I never noticed.”

by-Doug Mathewson

My Dearest Lady Astrid, I find myself most distraught by your message of yester evening; could it have indeed been your intent to click “send”? This recent missive has my heart racing two fold, in anticipation of your intimate embrace of a certainty as well in fear of reprisal at the hands of your exceptionally violent, ill tempered husband (the man our dear Queen referred to as “The Bloodiest of Britain’s Great Berserkers!). You may recall that in addition to being your somewhat hot-headed, fiercely possessive, and rabidly vengeful husband, the Brigadier is also my commanding officer!
Emailing me here in care of the Royal Fusileers is wildly dangerous as I am sure your husband, should he learn of our meetings, our rencontres romantiques may we say,
would hesitate not an instant to spend the coppers of my life’s blood here and now upon these dry desert sands. It was yourself, dear lady, with your ever present sharp cruel wit who mockingly observed that my bold and manly courage faded to mere vapors beyond you chamber doors, so while in theory I would face a thousand deaths with saber in hand, endure any manner of hardship and depravation for but a single kiss from your lovely lips, this is not a good time.
Fervently I wish to continue our conversation which you know I value so reverently, but please my Lady (dare I say, … my Heart) we must be discrete for both our sakes – your womanly good reputation and my very life depend on it, to that end contact me exclusively my love at Foofie.LeFrett@secretsweethearts.com this, I beg of you.

F