On the train looking through an independent literary journal I read a poem that made no sense to me at all. It was mostly about watching TV in the desert (I think). The train groaned and swayed along and my eyes were suddenly caught by the line “Alien Cave Woman Sex.“ Absolutely no image came to mind, none. Nothing at all. In my best David Sedaris voice I thought “Well, that’s interesting” and read something else. But the words “Alien Cave Woman Sex” wouldn’t leave. Weeks later I was reading a novel about a family of circus performers. They worked side-shows as “Living Oddities.” They’re acts were not “Big Tent Material”. The narrator says to another character “It’s like having a secret. Like having a bluebird tattooed under your pubic hair.” I can clearly see a small vivid cartoon bluebird, but not on anyone (anywhere!), just by itself. Another twist of words stuck in my head. Another unclaimed picture.

Neither phrase would go away. They would not be banished. Why couldn’t I leave them somewhere? Casually work them into conversation and abandon them. Give them  to a stranger. Let someone else deal with the mess. I didn’t make up either one. Why should I be stuck? Burdened for months with these two unspeakable clunkers. Finally I wrote my way out of this putrid mess with a short story.

A handsome and mysterious stranger is  suddenly stuck with appendicitis while waiting in line for the Alien Cave Woman Sex theme ride. While prepping him for surgery Carnival Nurse Betty Brazen was surprised (and intrigued) to discovers his secret tattoo. And quick as that both phrases were gone! Vanquished forever!
Freedom at last, because now, they have become yours. “Enjoy.”

by-Doug Mathewson

Unexpected early dismissal from jury duty
left me on my own
midday midweek midtown
used book store cafe near the court tantalized me in
juror parking was free so I still had ten bucks
clerk with race-car tattoos and vertical hair
took my six of my dollars
for a poetry book and a scone
scone was pear and almonds
book was Richard Garcia
both were great
reading and eating in a sunny spot
playing out my own alternate lives
with sailor me lost at sea
when cowboy me moved to town
disco me died too young
astronaut me who never took off
royal me without a throne
monastic me who suffered alone
the afternoon was passing
time to head home
the evening was still open
for us to decide who to be

by-Doug Mathewson

When Mom or Dad drove; he played cowboys and hot-wheels in the big back seat
At grown-up parties they would leave him to sleep back there
(He pretended to sleep afterwards when they fought)
Never needed his license; just rode in back and went with friends.
Married young he took the back seat to her.
Back seat to the mortgage and bills.
Back seat to the kids.
Back seat to the job.
She meet someone and off they drove
(Leaving him to clean up the mess)
Kids gone now; all grown up
New job these days; travels more
Big cities mostly – don’t need a car.
“Cabbie, take me home will ya?”
“77th Street , near  West End Ave.”
“Take the long way there”
I’m tired and
It feels good here in the back.

by-Doug Mathewson

Blenders run day and night here at “Smoothie City.” Something’s gone way wrong with the electric down our end (“the bad end”) of the mall. Just one toggle of a blender’s switch and the mall’s crappy PA muzak speakers snarl and howl in creature-feature demonic possessed agony!

Sometimes that’s ok, like “All Punk, All Ages, Spit In Your Smoothie Night,” why it just adds to the fun! But not so good for “Generic Disney Princess High Tea.” Wall to wall tiny pouty lips and folded arms is all you’ll get from this crew of cranky parlor princesses.

But The “Overnight Smoothie Smorgasbord” (one size, one flavor, all vegan) with the ambient sounds of “Moby”? Funny crowd, this one could go either way.

by Doug Mathewson

“Wait till your father gets home! Just you wait!” Mrs. Gandhi was so angry
with her eldest son she could hardly speak. Her voice skipped up two octaves up and with eyes flashing she continued. “Smoking cigarettes in the train station all day and not going to school! Have you no respect! Have you no shame? And drinking! Oh what will become you my son, when you have nothing! And nothing is all you shall have without an education!”
“I am so angry with you Harilal I can hardly speak at all!!!” Wait till your father The
Mahatma gets home! He will beat you severely, which is what you so deserve!!!
“My dad beat me,” thought young Harilal Gandhi,  “like that’s going to happen.”

by-Doug Mathewson

*Sadly Harilal, oldest of Mahatma Gandhi’s four sons did not follow a life of political activism as his parents and three younger brothers did. His alcoholism and depression led to his arrest on numerous occasions for public drunkenness,  promoting prostitution, embezzlement, and fraud.

Not a woman’s way, not like that. My deer rife, and her half-pint.
Both still on seat.
Way out there by herself. Pills you’d figure or a blade in the tub.
But not like this. First shot you’d think would’ve spooked her.
Her being alone and taking out the back window like it did.
Must of made a hell of a noise.

But she never would back off, that was probably half her problem.
Other half ran deeper. Old and dark, dark as night. Ran that way all her life.
Troopers found her upstate, out there by the lake.
Her pickup hidden by the trees.

Gotta say, always worried, her being my little sis and all.
Guess I can stop my worrying about her, use what I got left
for her kids.

by-Doug Mathewson

Deep within the Mall’s  Barnes & Noble Box, in the corner dubbed Starbuck’s, panning through the droning monologue you think is conversation, I caught your phrase “could never sleep with him, not with teeth like those.” By the time I could conjure up a vampire joke, our conversation has moved on.

by-Doug Mathewson

Agitated and percolating with impatience I waited as he rang-up my dollar books one by one. “Why can’t he just multiply” I fumed. Placing my receipt and complimentary
book-mark in the top volume, he shook his head and conversationally added, “short stories, now who has time for those?:

by-Doug Mathewson

Your sister and her friends were so drunk and loud,
we were all told  to leave the Karaoke bar. Adamantly you insisting on doing a song before we left, and sang “What’s New Pussy Cat” from the small and shabby stage. You were horrible, and I never loved you more.

by-Doug Mathewson

Still obligated to the label,
even after the millions I made them fronting famous glam band “The Pillow Shams’, they’d have me do children’s verse! A tale of little Ronkonkoma, the bandicoot with a difference. They pictured reversed stripes,…. the injustice of racism.
Fuck it. I’ll just make him gay.

by- Doug Mathewson