{EAV:ec0e703690a27824} Bright yellow mustard gurgled its way from within the yellow plastic bottle lightly icing then smothering the hot dogs plump brown skin with its yellow lava. Dante stared at the salty yellow mustard overflowing the buns edges and beginning to cover his fingers, it was only then he stopped squeezing yellow plastic and took a bite devouring half the hot dog in one chomp.

Cheeks grimaced, lips pulled back in an exaggeration as the tangy mustard covering the deeply succulent hot dog filled his mouth. Anyone watching would have seen his shoulders lift toward his ears and his whole body briefly shake, he’d hoped for just this nostalgic reaction as the river of mustard painting the inside of his mouth slid down his throat.

Speaking in low tones of rapture Dante summoned a moment, a memory of leaning hard against a sea wall and awakening into self one summer not all that far off, he’d breakfasted on a hot dog overflowing with mustard that day as well. Curiously it all came flooding back, the last of the mustard licked from his lips.

Uncurling his white stiletto fingers beneath his brown sweater exposing them to the sun hovering above, and the spritz of an awakening Atlantic Ocean filling his lungs Dante genuflected in the mornings direction laying his fingers upon the thin layer of moisture glistening upon the concrete sea wall.“This is my altar” he said in a raspy voice, “I am the priest celebrating my awakening.” Leaning into the walls coldness his face filled with furrows, a brief shiver moved up his arms. Gazing far across the Atlantic as gulls rode late morning currents his eyes followed their effortless play while rhythmically sagging into and away from the damp wall.

Dante’s quiet was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder, “where are you,” she asked while tightening her grip. “I was just remembering our first night together,” Dante responded without turning around to look. “Want to get breakfast” she asked, “How about a couple of hot dogs” he said as he turned and put his arms around her.

In the midst of everything I was ignored. Daily I’d stand hand extended, the crowds hustling past shunning connection proffering false intimacy. Sullen and rejected I watched time accelerate, crowds thin and pass me by.

My life never amounted to anything, it was a momentary swirl of occurrence with me standing alone upon high cliffs wind in my hair watching sunrises and sunsets while breathing in infinite possibilities but never plunging into the abyss of those possibilities. What was it about about mortality I didn’t understand.

On my tombstone the words “he loved standing at the waters edge” are enough, no tones of black derision painting my life as a failure are needed. I want my simple marker to consist of allusions to what I didn’t do. Some among you will see between the words and understand how my existence fell short, those not reading between the lines will pass by neglecting the opportunity to know who I wasn’t, afraid to see their own defecencies.

I forgot, I’ve forgotten how everything changes from what we thought it would be.

I’m an interloper to everyday life, born into a forgotten neighborhood lying on the other side of the tracks.

I’m among you, standing toed to your metal gates gazing up at life no longer expanding into possibilities, you know nothing of my existence, the possibility of me never intrudes upon your consciousness.

Clanking metals resonate daily as men and women forge the earth into blocks waiting for you to decide. Your hero’s and saints mean nothing to me, your weathered worship fallow of meaning, bereft of redemption.

My world built upon outsiders deprived ruthlessly of hope but who continue to suckle the emotions of breath, like Dennis Kendall the guy who first told me I wasn’t cool as he grabbed me by the collar and shoved me hard against the filthy brick wall cracking the cosmic prison my mind loitered in.

Or Marie Chanel who taking my hand led me past scattered trash into a narrow alley and sensing my confusion whispered “it’s alright,” then lighting a spark she flushed my youth down a rusted drain initiating a collision of life and death I’d never hoped existed.

When the nights are cold these are the people I hold in my heart with sentimental desperation.

Of the many vivid memories that help shape who I’ve become, it’s the memories from the dinner table which I cherish most, an eager little boy listening to everything embracing all that was said. I’d watch all the hands and mouths going about their joyful tasks imprinting it somewhere in memory. Bread resides in many of those memories.

White bread was all my dad ate, he’d transform white sponginess into a utensil and push food onto his fork with its folded shape, a soft loaf of Tip-Top bread nearly touching his big elbow lay always open, allowing easy access to another slice. My mother savored dark hefty breads wafting with aroma’s from her childhood in the orphanage. Pungent rye filled with caraway seeds was her favorite for sandwiches. My fathers viewed himself and others in a simple easily defined generalizations while my mother saw layers and shades of complexity in most people and situations.

To an outsider bread may have seemed like just bread, but to me and my sister bread was the nuance defining our dinners together. During the week our house was chaos and it was bread that picture framed the many varied meals my Mother and Father would cobble together. Saturdays became the time bread as sandwiches replaced sit down meals, bread starring as a central character in our one act plays.

Once a week at the Italian market dad would buy long loafs of bread wrapped in waxy white paper embossed with blue lettering saying simply “Italian.” Once home he’d walk in the door with an obscenely long loaf of Authentic Italian bread under his arm along with a huge grin on his face. The next step involved drizzling copious amounts of garlic butter over each slice, he’d make sure each was drenched in flavor then he’d warm the loaf and serve us his version of an authentic spaghetti night, garlic bread with all the fixings making everything just right.

Breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays brought out toasted raisin bread from the A&P, mom would slather it with soft sweet butter, she’d always take tiny bites so not to finish before the rest of us.

In the summer the Jewish rye brimming with caraway seeds my mother loved so much took center stage, she would slather peaks of Cain’s mayonnaise to start followed by succulent garden tomato slices fresh picked lettuce leaves and three slices of sizzling bacon, and don’t forget the fresh black pepper.

During the week it was potatoes that everything else carouseled around, boiled potatoes smushed with butter and black pepper showed up weekday after weekday, please pass the bread.

Feeling crept into awareness, subtle flavor I nearly missed lingers on my tongue. Alone I stand starring at the mirror, my face starring back at me. Flushed red frowning, puffy anger clinging to cheeks like rusted barnacles, all this I feel from the emptiness surrounding me, when your not here.

My imagination is pulling away from reality so quickly. I am sure my mind is beginning to resemblance a dirty clothes hamper, tangled and rotting from within.

I miss your touch upon my mind, your whisper in my ears. Only you can deliver a wretch like me, only your scent can awaken me bringing me to my senses. Only you hold the magic, you bare the fruit of life that I seek so deeply within my shattered shell. Only you…. only you. Only your touch can coax the blood back into my lifeless corpse, only you, no one else.

I gazed directly at the edginess walking slowly toward me. It’s not that I was daydreaming or counting the three pennies in my jeans pocket, no I looked straight ahead devouring scenes of early spring propelled upon dusty work boots, and over the city sidewalks I maneuvered around heaved concrete slabs listening as they sighed a late winter death rattle.

The sun was shinning, but not so brightly that I couldn’t see I was walking toward a hot mess of confusion and it toward me. If anyone else saw the eminent collision they failed that warm spring day to offer warning. I continued directly toward the menacing roar of belching anxiety, it spewing forth   plumes like a Chinese dragon extolling cheap fireworks dancing on blind legs.

Some say I was compelled to walk toward and to embrace the gooey promise of quiet as if I was an inanimate pile of metal shavings unable to resist the junkyard magnet, but I know that’s not the way it happened. I walked, then ran into the embrace of desolation masquerading as relief from the internal turmoil crashing around inside my thoughts. I opened wide fervently grasping for that slim moment of peace that comes from waking on the edge of consciousness and helplessly falling to oblivion.

The fall showered a cool balm throughout, forgetfulness spiked its wondrous salve deep within wrapping around the fire ragging inside my soul smothering all feelings and releasing me from my sins.

Exhausted with regret and the punishing pain about to invade my frail self I dragged my body home. The release I had welcomed would soon turn to torturous self loathing, and even now was planning to froth itself upon me.

Those of us who do even the smallest amount of writing will find ourselves sooner or later in a quandary that may seem quite dark. This particualr quandry is not the one you might be thinking, no I’m talking about the act of writing itself and not the over used clutch of writers block.

Lately a few people have asked (repeatedly) why aren’t you writing or why haven’t I seen anything new from you in months, generally I let them know that indeed I am writing but not stuff I want to share at this moment. What I’m telling people is true but it blushes over the reality that I’m not writing regularly. I’m not sitting down most everyday and spinning webs of words and fantasy, no I’m using that important time to do other things and avoiding direct eye contact with the face of writing.

I assure everyone I have plenty to write about, thoughts are crashing and rattling around within my mind unceasingly. like Niagara Falls plots and ideas churn themselves to a boil within my skull and rarely do I come up from this hot mess for a breath of air. Oh sure I can read a book or watch TV and these pesky collections of words and pictures will recede for a moment or two, but if I don’t keep myself steeled with avoidance the words will slap me aside the head laughing and taunting my puny attempts to deny them.

The words and dreams are never offended when I turn away inching myself toward a more mundane project or maybe some high-minded thing like meditation, no the words know they ultimately are the master that I must give into if I ever want the peace that comes with answering the sirens call. Crashing upon that rocks is not the disaster many would have us believe, it is turning away from this passion and relegating your dreams to a dusty attic in your mind that is the real sin.

Put on some music, open the window letting warm softness of first spring fill your writing area and swirl around filling you with delight. Maybe take off your shirt and let this air bring a tingle upon your skin as you sit down to write, the tingle you feel when your creative juice’s traverse their way up and down your spinal column igniting you with magic, painting scene upon scenes so you might delight in your passion.

My foots tapping to the music, the air wraps itself around my naked upper torso lyrics asking me “who’s going to save me,”  smiling I pick up my pen and touch it to paper writing one word after another…..

Writer’s can’t be saved they can only write…..

Toward the end of the year I was pondering what Flash Fiction Fidelity (faithfulness) would look like if put into words or chalked out upon a soiled building wall deep within some forgotten alley. Like the chalk maybe rules for writing Flash are meant to dissolve with the first rain, dripping into an ever widening pool on the ground only to be swept away by gravities suction deep within an anonymous city sewer.

Immediate Emotional Turbulence (IET), words placed on paper that grab and push the reader beyond their normal everyday experiences. And like turbulence Flash has an obligation to compel the reader to surrender their carefully constructed view of reality and feel something new, something extraordinary.

If writing Flash is an excuse to shrink a longer story without challenging both the writer and reader then what is it other then some homogenized spongy slice of white bread growing stale on the counter of sameness. Do we merely need to write about a bowl of fruit or does Flash call us to describe a rotten bowl of fruit littered with maggots evolving into something new while life around withers in loneliness. If there is an obligation for all writers no matter what their skill to challenge themselves and to deliver something real to their readers then maybe writing Flash compounds that responsibility and demands experimentation.

Doling out a quarter cup of plain yogurt from a quart container only shortens the time it takes to eat the plain colorless mushiness adding nothing to awaken taste buds and make the eater lick their mouths roof in delirious delight. But if you throw in dried cranberries canoodling with fresh blueberries sharing space with a sexy pecan or two you may light the fuse within a stilted imagination, forever changing their world and your world as well.

Fidelity Immediate (faithfulness to immediacy) is one New Years resolution I am committed to, stepping out with more experimenting so that my words strike a chord the reader will feel deep within driving a savoring catalyst causing experience and leading them to read more from an ever widening mishmash of daring writers and artists.

After our split we morphed into mere apparitions dismissed by the other with a turn of the head. No social foot prints were left for the other to discover, friends were enlisted as spies concocting elaborate cloak and dagger routines assuring we never went to the same party, never appeared at the same wedding the same book reading, until Halloween night that is.

I have no way of knowing if it occurred to Ellen not to show, it certainly had not occurred to me that my ex wife would be mingling with my guests like she’d never left me. But here she is dressed in a barmaid’s costume leather straps around her midriff lifting her breasts skyward earrings caressing her neck peaking out from beneath her cascading brunette mane. Once the center of our gatherings now she’s the center of my Halloween party.

Mingling her way through the crowd Ellen deftly moves toward me. I mingle in retreat from her advance, and for the briefest moment stop to catch my breath when fingers touch my neck then stroke my cheek. I turn and immediately tumble helplessly into her eyes.

Holding back hot tears welling behind my eyes, I’m unable to speak. Her  hazel eyes lock me in silent suspension, and in one motion acknowledging our dilemma she licks her finger then places its wetness upon my lips snakes her body against mine whispers in my ear “don’t talk”. My heart races the more her body leans against mine my hands encircle her waist looping fingers in leather straps yanking her hips into mine pressing into her  needing more. Barely moving we tug at each other aching to be closer oblivious to the guests, the muffle of a  trumpet player the only lifeline remaining.

Drawing a long deliberate breath as our lips finally touch I come alive savoring her taste in every pore of my body, shivers dance their way up and down my spine my head vibrates as if  touched by electricity tingling with desire back-lit with a deep reckless need for this woman.

Give and take, I touch you, you touch me. We dance around the room the only music a faint awareness of clinking glasses, laughing, talking and our own rhythm between us. My fingers explore her backbone diving into each crevice probing flesh muscle tendons for their connection to her. Ellen  plays the back of my neck her fingers creating wave after wave of  erotic shivers traveling through my entire body becoming euphoric pulses sealing her ownership of my will.

Garbing my elbow hard almost desperately Ellen maneuvers me into the loft’s bird cage her red blushed finger pushes hard upon the up button. Our hands scramble to touch the others face, kneading flesh deeply we linger lovingly as our fingers reach the crossroads seemingly for the first time. Aching to own the other aching to possess deeply, to shut off noise reminding us of the past. The elevator door opens reveling the empty bed we shared before we became  apparitions. We move into the room forgetting our phantom masks, forgetting each others pain while we give each what the other desires.

Tomorrow we’ll float apart like in a movie, now nobody feels any pain, just for now there are no roiling moments of regret inhabiting our lonely self’s, just for now all we need is love.

Lost words tumble from my mouth making their way to my ears, and I repeat the question hoping to kindle magic bringing about epiphany of purpose where there is none. Stubborn intransigence molded from the sticky clay of change grips me tighter each time I utter another slowly stirred  sigh.

“I’m tarnished,” covered in rusted flakes from tears that never really set me free anchored in mundane existence unable to exorcise myself chained to this tightly wrapped barbed wire encasing my mind,  suffocating my heart.

I shift my thoughts away from self pity engaging my cold hands and furtively light a cigarette rehearing scenes of vertical scorn that friends soon will heap upon me as they recognize the stale smell I carry through the front door.

Friends inside festively milling around toasting occasion posting smiles sucking frosting waiting patiently for me to show unaware I’m staring through tiny rows of wavy garage door glass peeking into their world ashamedly hiding orange cigarette glow from their merry inside world.

December frost hitching a ride on winter’s wind sneaks through weathered cracks causing me to contract further into my own lonely warmth. Fingers encased in blue can’t strike a match to relight the stubby fag hanging off my lip.

Grudgingly thoughts become zen bubbles excuses become phantom, cheer replaces apprehension and for a moment self involvement melts with repeated touch from those inside.

No explanations presented themselves no ingenious stories were available no excuses came bubbling up to slow the disintegrating curtain currently lowering onto the darkening stage of our relationship. No resistance flowed from my heart my mouth opened to exhale only silence as she walked toward the door. Each step away reverberated with consequences flooding my mind with a dizzying tilt-a-whirl flurry, my chest tightened ferociously around my breath time dissolved into a candled frame by frame existence. She came to a stop and with her hand reached and grabbed the worn brass door nob we’d found together at a flea market, her innocently wrinkled fingers rotated the knob clockwise opening the door flooding the entry with gray light that rushed in from the rainy outside world quickly transforming the entryways warmth into a tabloid lining a pissed stained litter box. Immobilized with blindness I listened to her exit to the outside, and she quietly pulled the door shut behind her.

Salaciously puncture my rotting skull with your heel grinding my rebellious will into dusty submission, cast me out till penitent I crawl.

The razor’s dull blade chafed skin beneath snow white Barbasol mimicking the unevenness that marked my failed life. Each nick reminding me of dreams long ago blushing pregnant, with promise. Now I wished to join those vanquished hopes following them down the drain of my corroded mind. Routine has become a prison and I have become both inmate and executioner.

I ache to run, arms flaying at missed opportunities chasing their ghosts into outer space, forgetting I ever had dreams of big things, I want to forget touching your skin with ten fingers both rough and soft, pinching your flesh and kissing each inch of you, you telling me “I love your breath on my body, your tongue licking me, I love you.”

I want to forget memories bubbling beneath snow white Babasol as I scrape layers of time from my face, with this dull rusted razor.

Violet reached the fly swatter on her desk before I could rise from my chair and escape, quickly she exploded her furry forward swatting my face imprinting her admonitions deep into my psyche. I was stunned senseless and fell upon the hard classroom floor. As I laid crumpled like a brown paper bag the quiet portended the gathering storm.

I felt her toes nudging my cheek poking me for a sign of consciousness, they probed areas of my face kneading my skin like you’d knead a piece of fish pondering its freshness. I opened my eyes to see the sole of her open toe shoe come to rest on my mouth, “lick my shoe” she ordered in an otherworldly voice, “lick my shoe you bottom feeding scum,” I resisted and tried to gather my senses but slowly her toes pried my lips apart pushing the shoe into my mouth. “Suck my foot, show me how little self respect you have left.”

I could hear a low growl coming from her but I couldn’t see her face. Violet was standing straddled  over my paralyzed body with one foot in my mouth the other next to my head, my eyes followed her  stockinged legs till the shadow from her skirt terminated the view. I indulged for the briefest moment in the leggy fantasy when out of the blue feeling returned to my body, and I bit down hard on her exposed toes sending a shock up her shapely leg she would not soon forget. The room filled with a scream laced with cruel invectives and down right unpleasant words.

This was my chance and I took it, scrambling to my feet I fled out into the school hallway hung a left and ran. Running like an undernourished child gripped by shame I ran for my life hoping to escape from her reality. As I ran the words Violet had hurdled at me filled my head “It doesn’t have to be difficult or messy like pulling teeth with rusty pliers. It’s not necessary to always doubt yourself, to fear change.”

In the beginning the words flowed out with gentleness, I knew she cared about me, and wanted to help me crack my shell, more then my teacher she was my mentor, I wanted to please her but I seemed stuck in concrete unable to change, unable to meet her expectations. It was then I saw the light in her eyes fade, I knew she had given up, given up just like every other adult in my life and I knew the penalty would be painful and swift.

Violet careened around the corner barely five steps behind me, her breath on the back of my neck bridged the rage stoking inside of her, the skin on my neck blistering as she drew near. I was about to reach the safety of the cafeteria when her hands encircled my neck nails penetrating deep into the flesh, and she dragged me to the floor my head bouncing hard against the concrete.

There was no quiet for me to hear no storm about to rage, I laid still not moving not moaning. I laid dead while Violet stood and dusted off her skirt barely looking at my lifeless corpse. “ No one who gives up on themselves ever leaves” she said gazing out onto the quad bathed in afternoon sun, then walked back to her classroom to prepare for next period.

Since 2004 there had been a steady increase in search traffic for “Porn” and a corresponding decline in search query’s for “Poetry.” What does it mean… Oh come on you know what it means, it means less people give a crap about Poetry or Flash Fiction.

Of course it could mean people are more sophisticated and know where the poetry is, so they don’t resort to such broad one word searches as “Poetry.’ It can also mean people are so flushed with heat that searching for a boring term like porn meets their carnal needs nicely.

Somehow artists and writers need to do a better job of extolling the inherent heat within Poetry, the life giving and expanding power within a Flash Fiction piece and the melting of your inhibitions brought on by an art showing on a Wednesday evening. sound the trumpet, spit-out the alternatives that life and art offer.

Porn may sometimes be art and Poetry may sometimes be porn but surely a decline in the reading of Poetry, Flash Fiction and the viewing or Art is always porn in its nastiest sense.