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Blues on a Sunny Afternoon

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“So, your kids never called or emailed?” he said as I returned to the porch. It was a beautiful day. Inspiration gushed out from everywhere. Just a perfect venue for blues. And nobody blew a more wicked harp than Blind Dog Kenny. But Blind Dog never had kids. He was curious about kids, though — a bit like what it might feel like to be a bat. “*I* just called them” I said, as I started dropping the sixth to D. Blind Dog reached for more mastika firewater. “And?” he asked, in his typical abbreviated persona. “They didn’t realize it was fathers’ day” I said, matter-of-factly. “Sweet” he said, slapping the harp on his palm. “Man, you sure raised them well, you know. No stupid retail holidays here.” He was right. “Let’s do another number” I said, “I feel like, Blues on a Sunny Afternoon”.

Corrugated Intentions

…that of flavor grave school
and hit in even as high
a woman’s grey stop
said know the stone
around fender-fingered surrender
me two trender, glaced
youth chlorine road
craved taught watered bones
love all please, just but
truth like to you-you
black fish suspended all
reporter lady quot-quot
spacer the resister
diving oblique stolen hair
marron taste apples
of holy smiled
some frisco, peace headed
compressed lost unzipped
dark chiral sweet versed…

No Hands

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I see you are a strong woman, and confident…” I said, taking a deliberate pause timed as theatrically as I could before finishing my sentence, “on the bike.” She was lightly built with an enchanting presence. That North Mesopotamian olive skin and almond eyes. She averted her glance meaningfully, as if she had practiced that move all her life. “I noticed something about you too” she said, smug, completely avoiding any acknowledgement of the compliment. “Oh yeah?” I exclaimed, rather surprised. “You let go the handle bars and rode the last ten minutes with no hands” she said. “It gives me a sense of freedom” I tried to explain. “Plus you can straighten your back, and look around from a higher vantage point. And see the flamingos way in the marshes.” Her manner was mysterious and inviting. Well-crafted like an Arabian Nights tale. I could tell she only seemed aloof, but was actually focused to the hilt. “You should get a unicycle. You have just about enough balance to shed that extra wheel and handle bar” she said, rather mischievously. ‘Just enough?’ I though — really now. This was no longer a two-bit conversation but a high-stakes poker game of sorts. One I felt losing. I took another pause. A longer one. This time to think of a witty comeback. This woman was as smart as she was elegant. “You are right, I think I will drop the bike” I said “but get a tandem, not a unicycle” I uttered. She looked straight at me, now with a Mona Lisa smile. She had slightly raised eyebrows. Mona Lisa had none. “Of course, she said” as if she read my mind perfectly, “but only if I am the lead rider.”